April 30, 2013

7:00 a.m. bagels

Leave the page, dear reader. This is poetry, too: Franklin Street
before the kids slump their way toward the high school
on the opposite side, a man climbing out of his dusty truck,
favoring his left knee, and heaving the shop doors open.
Even if you aren't yet awake, listen to the rattle of change
on the counter as he pays for a medium roast, and look the counter girl
in the eye when you ask for your half-dozen. Never mind that "Everything"
will contain so much salt your mouth puckers. Never mind you're about to run out
of orange juice. Let the day begin here, with the smell of warmth and sesame seeds,
before you have the language for anything else. Before it has language for you.