Monday Morning Feeling. Poem by Terry Collett

Helen awakes
to dawn's light.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

Light peeps
through blue curtains
like a nosey child.

What day is it?
she muses.

Monday.

Sighs.

Looks at her doll,
Battered Betty,
beside her
in the bed;
one eye open,
one eye shut,
dressed in
an old grey dress.

Time?

Radio plays
from sitting room.

Music drifts.

Tick tock
of hall clock.

She counts.

Seven fifteen.

Tick tock.

Time to get up.

Sighs.

Pushes back
grey blankets.

Puts her feet
onto the cold
linoleum floor.

Cold.

She sits
on the edge
of her bed;
looks at her toes,
her feet.

She looks back
at Betty.

Lazy girl.

Sighs.

She gets up
and walks
to the window.

Peeps through
the curtains
at day's dull light.

Coldness bites
at her limbs.

She stares
at the wall opposite;
dull coloured bricks.

She can smell
bacon frying.

Breakfast.

She walks across
her room
on cold linoleum.

Opens the door,
goes out
and closes door;
leaves Betty
to sleep.

She walks down
the passage.

Radio plays.

Music filters.

Bacon smell.

Her mother is
at the gas cooker
frying bacon.

Her hair in curlers,
dark hair,
plump features.

Fairies wake you up?
Mother asks.

No, just woke up,
Helen says,
sniffing the air,
looking at
the kitchen/ bathroom.

The table has been lowered
over the bath.

Plates set out.

Wash before food,
Mother says.

Helen takes
the boiled water
in the kettle
to the sink
and places a plug
in the hole
and pours
the water in.

She puts the kettle
back on the stove.

She turns on
the cold tap
and feels
the water get
to the right
temperature.

Turns off the tap.

Rolls up the sleeves
of her night dress
and washes: neck,
face and hands.

Dries on the towel
behind the door.

Go and sit
in the sitting room
and I'll bring in
your breakfast,
Mother says.

Helen walks through
the passage
to the sitting room.

Her father is
at the dining table.

Tea sipping.

Smoking
a cigarette.

Smoke rises
to the ceiling.

She gets that
dull Monday morning,
yuk school,
feeling.