Part I
these days
we can’t sleep till the
still dawn unsettles earth
and works its way into
the buildings that
congregate on Toronto streets.
we want to use that French press.
we have the time now, but don’t have one
as it broke four months ago. leaving
the coffee to drip from the
machine in the kitchen.
drip.
drip.
drip.
unsure light blushes the horizon.
skyscrapers and buildings dominate
the view out our window. but the
tender sky always peeks through
between the buildings.
fields and forests are far away,
but they call to us. still, even here,
when we’re so far removed from them
they call to us as coffee drips.
drips.
drips.
every aching day repeats itself. three cats beside us.
are already dozing. while we, still awake, watch dawn
draw on its last reserves to rise. as we do the same,
struggling to be fully awake. struggling to get through another day.
