On What A New Day Brings
Before the promises of a new day are broken
and the city still lies in a chalk outline of itself,
go into the morning that thinks its night,
to your car parked on the street sweeping side
of the street and act like you are breaking in.
It’s OK, nobody will notice a thing, as you snake
two quarters from the mid-console cup holder,
saturated in Mr. Pibb; two quarters sunken
in a pit of syrup that stick to the tip of your index
and middle fingers like George Washington
sponsored sneakers; and you walk to the all-night
convenience store that is open all morning too,
place the coins on the eye lids of the sleeping clerk
so that in his dream he dreams fortuitously,
as you take the warm edition of the L.A. Times
and stow away back to home, the click of brass,
and the severance of the world behind you.
