Kelli Brommel
Morning Recess
On my walk today I saw
a man washing his car
and a paper wasps’ nest full of hibernating
lives held up high,
a cement lamb painted white,
a grey slab of sky both thick and cool
and covering us all the way the blankets hold you in
when you first go to bed—too cold but
soon just right.
Today on my walk I heard
music in my ears, designed for calm,
hallelujah,
and birds of all kinds,
young footsteps jogging up from behind
then crossing the street,
a siren scream plus my own suppressed sob
at all things ambulance-related.
The drivers’ ed car made its
slow, slow way down the street,
tire treads rasping leftover
winter sand.
An old woman waved on
my walk today, our gloved hands
and smiles in tandem, while a life
set on pause kept scrolling
behind windows full
of paper hearts.
In my own dead-leaf garden
purple crocuses flirted
despite the brownish crunch
all around.
As I stepped onto my porch
the bright wet world outside
reached toward green
and smelled of pine.
—Submitted on 04/28/2020
Kelli Brommel lives in Iowa City with her husband, two kids, and a cat named Little Grey. Her poems have appeared in Short Édition and The Esthetic Apostle.
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