Routine Morning

She wakes the kids and fills the cereal bowl
Helps them to dress, locates an errant sock,
Glugs coffee down, with one eye on the clock:
Just like a real person with a soul.
Feeding the cat, she sees it start to rain.
The kids come clattering in, pour milk, and say
That science project was due yesterday,
The new coat’s really dry but much too plain.
She hugs her wife and kids, then in the street
Cars swish on past, a man yells from one “You!”
Then “kike!” or “dyke”, and leaves it incomplete.
Squelching to work, a hole in her left shoe:
An other, in the city, the elite —
A real person, hurting, just like you.