Morning has broken,
Plants, people, and mechanisms are touched by light.
Strange concepts we call life.
Buses roll out onto Dalmatian-potholed streets
as sun hits gazing eyes.
Water beads bejewel, adorning the
perfectly cut blades of
Trash men collect garbage
swishing and slopping repugnant trash.
Commuters traverse out and through; up and down,
This is no winter,
summer months of reprieve;
hot to sweat,
we lay at the beach.
Though always in motion;
The never still late nights,
even if we embody the hard to wake early mornings.
Enticing to the outsider
a spider’s web for those who call it home.
You are here today
Taking it in-
on some corner of some neighborhood
in some way.
Morning has broken.