she's here, late for work

She's here, late for work
heels clacking on the hardwood.
The radio is on.
Garbage truck is dieseling outside.
I am here, writing in the noise.
The tempest of this morning
is full and complete,
is the identity of today.

An envelope tucked full of my poetry waits
on the small table by the door.
I am sending them off—a tearing away from me
into the mangled claw of an editor.
Maybe a nice person. Maybe not.
Oh, sweet, chirping notes of my soul.


The garbage truck coughs away down the street
as she pulls out of the driveway.
I leave the radio on
to keep some essence of what just was.
The envelope looks too bulky for the postage I have put on it.
I'll take it to the post office,
see about getting it on its way.
Maybe put a FRAGILE sticker on it. Maybe not.