The morning is my favorite time to be alive. I get to hear quiet and eat sweet things. Some mornings are better than others of course, like this morning before a holiday tap dancing in white patent leather shoes and tights smiling at the sidewalk with spreaded arms, fingers lifting shiny thread dotted hem. A yellow rose, twenty feet away, died yesterday. It might come back to life, who knows? Anything could happen. Anything. Three days ago, I pushed a box half my weight and screwed metal rods together, into a frame, by myself. I have strength, still. I love watching the morning in her shoes and skirt, love hearing her voice make song. I want to make a song. I want a voice that will wash dirt from strangers’ eyes and wipe the smirk from the wind’s mouth. I sit on my frame’s cushion, a silent-limbed hum of anticipation, waiting for this voice to come.
A corn broom stands proud in the corner of my flat, long grain string toes poised on wood.
I rise, I sweep, we dance. I forget about the strangers and the wind. The morning has made an optimist of me. Optimism. My quiet voice loves this sunny sound, wants to hold hands with it. It ignores the keloids on the knuckles, the flat graves of abrasion across the carpals, and hunts for the softness. It will find it. It will. And it will sing.