The trees pace around the morning
with small steps, measured,
unconsciously wearing small circles
above my wind-tossed hair as I
warm a steel bench with the
patience of prey wrapped in undergrowth.
Sirens and taxis fight over a bone as
I huddle around a steaming paper cup.
Why must mornings announce
themselves so early in the day?
Likely because they know my
eyes will be at half mast, numb
to needling unwelcome news.
Perhaps it's the closest thing
to pity I'm meant to know.
My coffee cooled and palms warmed,
I abandon a full cup of illusions on the bench
and return to the waiting area.
Copyright © Darryl Davis