The gods of morning call to us
when we retrieve the news
outside the wrought iron door.
They speak through birds and leaves
and the silence that falls down cool.
Old Ed Bean arrives in his dented coup,
arguing politics and baseball.
A great leaping beast laps at the tailpipe,
redfaced, disjointed, frisky,
it’s tongue long and raw as sunrise.
We join other cars on the freeway,
take turns saying, “Once this was a farm.”
The creature chases us as far as the bridge,
falls behind, and the city
collects its toll.
In the compound of brick and traffic lights
faces in car windows become clear.
We congregate in office malls
for soup and salad and bring home music
to wail by in the evening.
In leather recliners we’ll sink
in television light,
flipping for plots with surprise endings,
calamity in Peru ,
somebody’s love affair.