At Morn

dark to light, a gentle breeze
and hands outstretched to greet
with lips aged by coffee –
warm and bittersweet

 

meatballs rolled off 

tabletops - lost; red-stained; 

basking in pools of buoyant light 

from whence the high eye reigned... 

clusters of cans cluttered home, 

soaked with the city’s oil – 

the stench poisoning each breathe 

yet fuelling tomorrow’s toil 

 

and as if it never left, it returns 

through the doorway without a knock – 

those frail fall and hit no pillows 

to the final hiss of the clock. 

~ written 24th September 2020