We are a quiet trickle
marching gently
There is bacon in my teeth
We flow from side streets
falling into line
bunched in twos and threes
Familiar good mornings to
the dad with the always-bundled baby
the mom with the screen in her stroller-boy's face
the tall woman clutching her NPR travel mug,
awkward next to the young man in kitchen pants
leaning on the bus stop sign
The 552 is late
It's kisses, it's there's egg on your lip, it's clip your gloves together, it's mommy did you take your medicine
Airplanes weave patterns in the wide blue
Holly bushes shine silver dollars of sunshine
back to me
The bacon is gone from my teeth
That old New Jersey jeep hiccups,
warming
White puffs disappear behind it
The steering wheel shakes
like always
Garbage trucks beep and clang and
slow motion drop this week's scraps inside
carpet installers
hoist a tight roll on their shoulders
aiming at an open door
nodding good morning
I smile into my vest, thinking of mornings
and family and cities and
open the door
to my full coffee pot
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