Poems by Jacqueline Jules

The Shoemaker’s Elves

If the shoemaker cut the leather
and retreated to bed feeling as tired
and sore as I did last night, his amazement
must have matched mine this morning.

While I didn’t have naked elves
sewing neat stitches for me overnight,
somehow my table at dawn held
the solution I couldn’t see at dusk.

“Sleep on it” is standard advice
for decisions too important for haste,
but maybe best applied to weary evenings
when I feel I have nothing left, no strength
to toil with aching hands, no trust
my aging mind can tackle the tasks
better finished by energetic elves
who sneak out of the shadows
while I’m sleeping at night.

Good Morning

“I slept well last night,”
I inform the kitchen counter
as I stir creamer in my coffee.

In the house alone, black speckled granite
appears to be the best ear for my news.

Though I could turn around
and talk to the fridge.

Would the stainless steel door
be interested to hear
that I slept through to the alarm
for the first time in weeks?

Unlikely.

But I continue my report anyway,
not yet adjusted to a life without
anyone in the morning who cares
if I slept well or not.