Til the sun appears, the neighborhood is
sketched in greys and blacks; true colors confined
to patches of harsh light under streetlamps.
A New Age soundtrack: "tap-tap-tap-tap" from
my shoes on pavement and the "whoooosh" of tires
against the asphalt, half a block away.
Each breath drags in pure smells I would never
notice in the light: cedars and flowers
and the faint remains of a too-slow skunk.
This thick wet air guarantees a dog day
later, but picking up speed beside the
cool stream, I'm briefly sorry I'm shirtless.
There, in the stark light beneath a streetlamp
is a dark figure, dressed for winter,
pushing a packed cart: "Property of Safeway."
Homeless here? I thought they'd found the answer,
but this Third Wave is apparently tidal.
Five thirty: time to shower and commute.