Good Morning to You (a poem)

I come from a modest household.
Green grass, white house, painted smiles.
Milk is brought to the door and laid by the news.
The used bottle set out the night before lays shattered on the porch.

I lie on my cot, shivering in the early heat.
I hear bacon sizzling in the hot fat, splattering her apron.
Dishes clink on the table harder than usual.
Another day in hell has begun.

So I followed her tall, full body down the hall.
The heat of the stove glues the sweaty, oily apron to her.
The table is pregnant with eggs, toast, pancakes, and juice.
More food than usual…It’s going to be a really bad day.