by Jan Seale
It is 3:30 a.m. and Alicia
drives her old orange Datsun.
She picks up her papers
at the distrib center and knows
she can fold and bind them all
while waiting the six red lights.
Now she’s turning corners,
her brown muscled arm
stabbing the open window,
her eyes not needing the address,
aiming the morning edition
five inches from the door,
avoiding the Japanese yew,
the petunia basket, the cactus.
Home again, Alicia pulls in
her driveway, hears the grace
of gravel beneath her,
takes her keys, walks the path
to her front door, her own place,
her house with an address.
Alicia will check on her mother
on the couch, the wheelchair beside.
Then she’ll check on a boy with one
leg thrown outside the covers,
next, a girl with flushed cheeks,
her hair splayed on the pillow.
Alicia will go to the kitchen,
wash her hands of printer’s ink,
get out the milk, the eggs,
the tortillas, and begin
her second new day.