At Three O'Clock In the Morning

AT THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING trucks toil the city’s streets, a minuet of practiced precision, to the pulsating rhythm, to the incessant beat. they parade and pause, they roll-on. stop. roll-on. stop. roll-on. stop. they parade their wares. sons. sons of sons. sons of sons of sons. daughters, a grand-daughter too. purveyors on the prowl before another dawn, treading black ribbons, streets, whose crisscrossed form divides and marks the territory. butchers and bakers, fishmongers, greengrocers, candle-makers all. they unload loaves and lettuce. candles and sweet cane. sustenance. need. want. frill and frolic. unload profit and provender for mongers all, large and small. crusted long loaves steaming to the touch, the yeasty aroma a nostrum to nostrils and lungs. the city’s demands. the city demands. a small, brown-yellow knot-limbed man, checks cardboard crates, bushels and pecks. he sets to replenishing large, open, shallow wood slatboxes cramping every sidewalk with colors yellow-red-orange-purple-green. each rising from a steady square base into pyramids of orange-pear-grape-banana-apple-tomato. native and exotic, in season or not. guarding all this in plastic greencups: captain chrysanthemum. inside are muffins of cornmeal and oat, berries black and blue. cranberry. bran with and without raisins. muffins crowncrusted, each cellocaped waiting for a rushing hand. eat my love, eat. i’m here my love. forgive me as you sleep. sleep. it’s three o’clock in the morning. ###