Here with a dashboard view,
sleepy eyes take
the quiet city coming alive,
we are few between many doors,
Falcon Heights and going,
street to street,
community to community,
into the morning routine forgotten
on this early route.
under damp skies heavy,
and fleeting streetlamps,
there waiting is the shielded sun,
creamed coffee in the center console sea
splashes and waves,
ebbs and flows,
high tide to low,
becoming more clouded,
at each abrupt lurch of fresh tire to ground,
at each crude pothole found.
Out with a love kiss
and a copasetic slammed rusty door,
a red-brick building amongst other zombies,
dogs, and cats—I hold the door.
Administration signs we pass: “authorized personnel only”,
keys with their jiggling change sound of agency,
intimately within, feeling special again…
Through vacant hallways which exist resembling tubes
and tunnels and fish tanks—minus exotic fish,
with subzero refrigeration units which are warning: no food (!),
and photos of past passers-thru hugging plaques.
Press a sticky button for the elevator—engage the motion,
ding ding ding, ah…
lonely polished doors open,
step in, and close, to hit the number four…
I should have taken the stairs today…
I think, exercise…
and out to a wooden door and a sparkling tile floor,
unclipping keys to enter this cryptic lounge,
no one near, just me here.
Turn in, let the day begin,
and come get your books.