Mornings with Susana

6 am.

She sits there dressed for the day, her hands encircle

Styrofoam encased cereal.

Slurps up snippets of cookie crumble, she groans at

her computer. Its electronic cry calls her to work

much too early.

7 am.

Perched precariously in privacy, she

sits on crossed legs.

Doodles her drawings while waiting

on hold. Her phone sits as motionless

as she does.

8 am.

Inclined, she sublimely teeters and feasts

on Hot Cheetos and milk.

She laughs out loud at a filthy limerick;

her phone wakes from its dormancy. It alerts

her of its being.

9 am.

Dark hair drapes her face, her fingers

peck at keys.

Rhythmically, she moves to poppy phrasing,

“Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho, little bit psycho”

she sings along.

10 am.

Delivery time, she springs into action and

buttons up her shirt.

She snatches a Powerade and the keys from the guys, she grins,

and assumes the Alpha position. Her phone chimes the time,

the ten o’clock text.

11 am.

She rests in her chair, she alternates between

snacking and weaving.

Rubber band in hand, she beautifully braids

her brunette tresses, and tosses golden goldfish

into her mouth.