“…This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.

And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This — holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.

And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This, sort of looking around.”

—The Gate, Marie Howe

_________________________

Early Bird

by Taylor Sicko

The early bird gets the worm

and I woke up at six.

It rained today, what April delayed

and the worm did what the worm does

and the bird did what the early ones do

and I woke up at six

wondering what role I play in all of this.

But I kept washing my dishes

because Marie Howe said

"This" is all I’ve got

though I've never been one for a cheese and mustard sandwich.

The pasta from last night should do.

Red sauce stained the Tupperware

I'm sure I’ve stolen from a friend

a reminder of the love I had last night.

And poets are so predictable.

Red equals love the same way

the worm did what the worm does

and the bird did what the early ones do

and it's still only six

and my dishes are half done

my lunch is half packed

and my love is still asleep in my bed.

And really, that’s the only thing that feels full

half tangled in pink bed sheets and my dog's perfect hair.

What happens to the birds who are late, anyway?

I'd like to think the worms get some more time

and surely there's a lover bird in a nest somewhere

thinking that maybe there's no reason to be up at six at all.