It’s time to go to work. 
The retired woman as big as a house stands on her porch

scattering pigeons with mild invective and a broom,
no longer prone to fluctuations in the market.

Five doors further neglected leftovers of a yard sale 
gather must and furious glances from the neighbours.

Countless enterprising sparrows mill behind 
the bakery while fish persist in sidewalk barrels

full of their own gore. The homeless guy, here
every day wearing one glove, begs in a stutter

that depreciates the air around him, discovers 
he finally has enough change and considers

this a version of grace. Without any 
explanation for such impossible endurance,

I’m met with a lack of nerve. If not these 
back to back twelve-hour shifts, then what?

The next store window teems with samples made
for display purposes only. I can’t fit a thought

edgewise as I approach an evening’s 
uninspired events. One adventitious gift

when later, all business with our peers, you 
turn to say it’s time to go.