small studio apartment

wakes up bare-assed.

the smallest piece of a thread from an old t-shirt

on her eyelashes, weightless,

it escapes her, a strand of cloth lost to first morning impressions.

she can see the kitchen from the bed, then —

‘I make noise’

(first morning joy)

the one with the accent goes on:

‘I make eggs. Want eggs?’

she’s wearing her t-shirt

inside out

‘I’m sorry’