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.
1 December 2014