Daybreak Express

Pink sky over Brooklyn.
In the middle of the night
a child's voice on my i-phone.
Creamy dawn, the motion of Monday
thundering across the courtyard.
We can shower, go worthless, while
faint exchanges rustle the words.
Look out there: people are nowhere
at all. Slow machines hum in a sort
of cordial mush, then a whirling
of humans on a mission, like milk
will carry your elbows into a good
looking thing. Out amid the cars
and the nice little things like corner
bodegas and perfectly designed mints.
Spray the radiator with a a scented oil mixture.
Outside: dry and stinky. In here: fragrant, damp,
and warm. The old world is waking up
just fine without me.