The Small Hours

At 6 a.m. the toast burns black; I scrape the stars from its crust. You insist the blue cup is yours, then leave it untouched by the sink. Your shoes wait like two open mouths. The rain keeps tapping at the glass. I count the minutes, find your coat, and button you into the day. At night, the house exhales at last. A small hand curls around my thumb. I want to keep this weight for ever; I want one hour with no one needing me. Both wishes settle in the quiet: a folded blanket, a cooling cup. Tomorrow, I will rise before the light and try again, not quite the same.