Singing

A woman in the kitchen in a stained bathrobe
singing, her voice raspy as blowing leaves,
singing, her voice dry but the song sloshing, filling the illuminated room.
Because there were no muggers in the parking lot last night,
because she called in sick and they believed her.
Because the sun's shining on a chipped wineglass in the dish drainer making it sparkle.
Because a man with beige hair and a white goatee loves her and she loves him.
Slicing the hot hardboiled eggs on the buttery toast wet with delicious grease,
the steam smells like the dirt the hen scratched in.
Grateful to be about to eat a life:  no cancer, pregnancy, broken heart.
Looking out the window watching three small brown birds,
the undulate and glint of the telephone lines,
her hands translucent in the sunlight holding the rusted knife,
the day about to happen, singing.