Workday Weekday Poem by Sally Plumb Plumb

As dawn touched eyelids
through a semi-transparent curtain
that was morning,
a misty mind unfolded, slowly,
memories of yesterday,
thoughts for today.

Lying comfortably beneath a cover
that was once a dozen swans,
she,
after some decisions
and more dozing
decided to lift herself
and begin her days events.

After bathroom chores
and much gazing into the mirror
she wanders down
a half decorated staircase,
enters her kitchen,
examines a sink
that needed cleaning yesterday
but can wait until tomorrow.

A mug of tea,
the housewifes saviour
is sipped with a disapproval of taste.

Next task of every weekday morning
is the pressing of not quite clean jeans,
well worn working shirts,
hankerchiefs, frilly pants
and anything else that was tubbed
or scrubbed the day before.

A sip of now lukewarm tea.
A sharp yell that vibrates
to yhe top of the stairs...
'Daniel, get up'.
A second attempt to rouse her son
never fails.
'Wash yourself good',
she yells in her cup.

Downstairs comes son.
'Hello, Dan'.
'Hello, Mum'.
'I'll have some toast without much butter,
plenty of marmalade, though' he mutters.
Some scrapes the half burned toast.
'My fault again'she has to boast.
Son talks wide eyed and alert,
mum still half asleep, inert.

Eventually, son departs for school,
she must also work to rule.
So, she does a final chore
before she passes through the door,
an opening that is a new working day.