The pitch streets surge,
growling motors a blur;
a slow awakening morn,
forces billowing cloud strata aside,
for the first glimmer of day.
Dim faces stare pensively
from frosted car windows,
launched into day unprepared,
coffee grounds clumsily scooped,
bench strewn, at home,
along with expectations.
Contiguous flashing lights
eclipsed by incessant shards, sun imposed,
while drivers squint,
all scrubbed and fragrant, they labor,
into the city laden air.
Coffee shops a buzz,
desperate dry mouths muttering,
lines of vacant pleas, shuffling,
like zombie queues;
heart starters all around, while
awaiting some modicum of clarity.
like ants into the hives they stride,
and the babble of their collective voices
wafts like the hum of a machine,
and the air is thick, a burden,
in the city, where souls march
to a steady beat.
Tony DeLorger © 2017