This is not Monday morning and I am not by the window,
I am out in the yard, starting a fire as the light Minnesota snow
starts to fall. I have flannel pajamas on under my overalls and coat.
The other side of the privacy fence are the many-colored cars
at the red and green corner lights, on their way to work.

There is a boring litany of jobs they are going off to
called making a living. I am only $200 behind this month and staring
at the smoke which rises from the leaf pile going every direction
like a Midwest dancer on stage in front of men who do not
know Norma Jeane’s mom was from the fly over country.

Even the hidden sun throughout the day,
and the moon in the dark of night,
stay on their path and finish the journey.

The bird houses are cleaned and ready for next spring
and the fallen branches of summer get piled on the fire
and the drivers look enviously- passing
as I think of this evening’s wine and
touching my lover’s hips.

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