The alarm goes off – on the dot –
and a stagger to the shower
fires my skin into a heat-map:
another day and a dollar.
The Northern Line is running well
- I’m told – and wide-eyed travelers sniff
on the way to London Bridge, sigh
when train doors sigh. Monks for prayer,
people assemble here
carrying bread, briefcases, stars
on posters smile and sparkle.
A crowd of muffled dervishes
is falling through time like days:
trusting (this day) fire can kindle rainbows; little hearts.