Every Wednesday, by agreement, I write a poem to send to my poetry buddy, author Clara Gillow Clark, and she writes a poem to send to me. Here's my poem for today, which just happens to be my son Gregory's first day of his senior year of high school.
Alarm Clocks
At 6:30 I will open the door
to the boys’ rooms. “Good morning,
Gregory! Good morning, Christopher!”
For a moment I feel guilty that
I still do this. Don’t they have
cell phones that can be programmed
somehow to beep at the appointed hour?
They’re 17 and 20!
But then again, I’m 54, and I wait
each morning for Snickers to come
meowing piteously around the bed,
switching her tail against my face.
And who wakes Snickers?
The birds beginning to sing
outside the open window?
And who wakes the birds?
Who roused them to be
the heralds of morning?
At 6:30 I will open the door
to the boys’ rooms. “Good morning,
Gregory! Good morning, Christopher!”
For a moment I feel guilty that
I still do this. Don’t they have
cell phones that can be programmed
somehow to beep at the appointed hour?
They’re 17 and 20!
But then again, I’m 54, and I wait
each morning for Snickers to come
meowing piteously around the bed,
switching her tail against my face.
And who wakes Snickers?
The birds beginning to sing
outside the open window?
And who wakes the birds?
Who roused them to be
the heralds of morning?
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