When I woke up this morning,
it was a half day. The curtains
half-drawn let half the sun
fill half my bed with light.
The half-slab of bacon I cooked
on half an iron skillet filled
half the kitchen with smoke
and half the alarm went singing.
I walked into my office carrying
only half of the papers I needed: not
forgetting some, but carefully cutting
them down into equal portions.
By the time noon rolled around,
I had finished half my work
and was looking forward to half
a sandwich I had half-hidden in my drawer.
Eating with the right side of
my mouth on the left side of
a nearby bench, I saw a
whole person walk past.
And when they smiled, it was not
the half-smile I give, but
a whole, tooth-heavy grin,
and I, half-heartedly, smiled back,
knowing that only I knew it was half.