Walk to Work

The walk to work
through squealing doors shut carefully,
trying not to disturb the morning.
Gravel crunches in the thin day,
a service road in idle brownness beneath hushed mountains.
Breath catches in the cold just as eyes,
ten minutes before, had caught on fluorescent
hallway lamps
and ears (consciousness) had been caught
by the harsh trembling of
that alarm
clock.

Apron tied, pockets heavy with keys,
ravens overhead,
the walk to work
before chipmunks are awake.
Last night still hums,
so recent the cream soda lips, the curl
of absinthe toes against a soft bedspread.
Now, in the dawn, those others
wrapped in sleeping bags,
warmly unaware,
waiting for older light,
birdsong, breakfast.
The walk to work,
lungs filled.