aurora

Waking up early seems an insult to the sun,
as if my open eyes suggest I’ve completed

my rest far before he ever has and I’m just
the impatient, feverish mother shaking him

by the shoulder. He throws fitful rays
through the blinds, off the high chair, tattooing

the floor. Bending with a morning back, cracking
in the knees, I mop some, sloppy, with a paper

towel. Heaven help the single mother.