By | 1 December 2014

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.

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