Morning In Montclair

by Christine Adams Beckett

The town is waking beside
Us, my daughter and me,
As we drive to her bus stop.
I am silent as the first
Few ounces of coffee start
To reduce the swelling around
My eyes, but she actively
Chatters a commentary
Of the daily details of
What transpires outside
Our car windows,
Still blooming with frost:
A bespectacled man
Walking an old English
Sheepdog who raises his
Paper cup to us in greeting,
Shop keepers turning keys
In streak-free doors,
Reflecting the rising sun
Still framed in boxwood and
White lights for Christmas,
A gaggle of children
Huddled together at the
Corner of North Mountain Avenue
Waiting for their own ride to school.
Yet noticeably absent
Is the pregnant woman
Pushing a stroller occupied
By a toddler of unknown gender,
Tucked into a fleece pouch,
Westbound on Bloomfield Avenue.
“I bet she gave birth!”
My daughter exclaims,
As I long for our unacquainted,
Who as familiar as they are
Remain strangers to
Our intimate daily life.