New Morning

Early morning,
cocks stop crowing,
other birds take up the call.
A town awakes,
leaves the sex dreams in their bed somewhere,
pushes the fear dreams to the back of their heads.
Much shaving, face washing, coffee,
now the dreamer must go out and do it.
Work harder or less, steal or put back,
screw the neighbor’s pretty wife
or demons in an office bathroom.
The light has moved everyone on from where they were.
Apology replaces act.
Honing in trades places with randomness.
It’s to do with the brightness
and the stirring of a spoon
or the spray of hot water on the skin.
A scrawny rooster booted last night out the door.
Other birds feed on its flesh.
A town barks like its dogs,
purrs like its kittens.
Today, a bum could be the mayor.
A mourning widower might find a bride
behind that tombstone.
A shy girl will read Homer.
A boy from Brooklyn will go to Texas.
The rooster flops down from his fence,
double-trots to the barn
to rustle up some hens.
The birds are singing a song
that a clock taught them.

A guy says never leave me
to a woman who wasn’t here before.
A child recites the alphabet
before the day knows that’s how words are made.