Days

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.