4am

I have a window; Any day— the traffic below is undying with busy people, vehicles unending, and ambulances screaming for way. men donning mud for clothes and wool for hair command parking and direct movement of vehicles for spare change. Above, I can near scrape the sky and hunt birds with a broom; The sun knocks on my window before morning strikes the road. Clouds have their breakfast on my desk— They wash my glass before they send the rain to wash the mud and soften hair of the homeless men below. Barely a fingertip from the road An abandoned skyscraper journeys to the heavens; It stands giant among peers with a rooftop at the pearly gates. When I raise my eyes, I squint from the sun before I see near its end. But— Every night When 4am comes; When the road is lonely, and the sun is still in slumber; when the men of the streets cease to command the road and they break fence to the empty structure, They break my sleep with the clangs! and clashes of stolen steel across the street. Two poor guards will wake for another man’s fortune, They march to the noise like naïve teens in flicks of horror. But a baton won’t scare a pack of hungry men from taking what little they can sell; Though not for much, the guards won’t lose their employ. A war greets the day, with a blur on who stands villainous.