Sunday Morning

In the crowded lobby of the pancake house,
we hold our pagers like crucibles.
The woman next to me hums a looping tune,
plays her electronic Scrabble.
She asks if she’s crowding me on the bench,
not if I mind the hum.
I look around, each of us dripping
from the pour of Sunday rain,
trust that soon we’ll all be beckoned forth.
The hostess says it plain each time
the door opens, at least a sixty-minute wait.
Quiet facts added to the sediment
of life’s terrain: the squish inside our shoes,
another lost umbrella,
somewhere else a mother frying bacon.
The hum of the woman who won’t stop
a raft to sail
the coming hour.









Micki Blenkush lives in St. Cloud MN and works as a social worker. She is a 2015 recipient of an Emerging Artist Grant awarded by the Central MN Arts Board, funded by the McKnight Foundation. Her writing has appeared in: Sequestrum, Naugatuck River Review, Gyroscope Review, and elsewhere.

See more poems from Micki in issues 3.1 and 4.3