The sun rises bright
as a salesman,
so
bright the mountains look black. State Street gleams
like
ice. For fifteen shining minutes
at
dawn, you can hear pigeons preening.
Mirrored
storefronts burn like searchlights
on
sidewalks clean as diner counters.
The
dry breeze smells like sand. For fifteen
minutes,
no one moves and no one speaks
before
the engines start. Newspapers
lay
stacked in boxes. Eggs rest in crates.
This
is the time the day is weakest.
If the
paper asked “Why?” above the fold,
we’d
lay down our combs, walk out the door
in our
robes, and sit down on the curb.
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