It is morning and the sun still lies low, below
The tree tops.
The sidewalks and the carefully trimmed lawns are wet
With water from sprinklers.
And where the road is hemmed in by woods, bands of
Light and darkness.
The world, contrary to what the nostalgists or the futurists hold,
Exhibits the same
Ambiguity in the morning newspapers – a new cure for stroke balanced
By a fresh massacre of innocents.
Aromas of various breakfasts from open windows – bacon, jam, baked apples
Vanish when a garbage truck trundles by.
Traffic picks up with passing hour, the day drags the sun higher by
It’s orbiting leash.
Cars with office workers flanked by joggers, mothers with perambulators
And dog walkers, start the parade.
After good morning, howdy and all that to the neighbor lady in a straw hat
Hunched over dahlias and black eyed susans with shears,
The poet returns home, to coax a poem out of such everyday things
As sun breaches the screen of trees.