Days

The alarm goes off – on the dot –

and a stagger to the shower

fires my skin into a heat-map:

another day and a dollar.

The Northern Line is running well

- I’m told – and wide-eyed travelers sniff

on the way to London Bridge, sigh

when train doors sigh. Monks for prayer,

people assemble here

carrying bread, briefcases, stars

on posters smile and sparkle.

A crowd of muffled dervishes

is falling through time like days:

trusting (this day) fire can kindle rainbows; little hearts.

Click, click,click,click

Knock knock! Who’s there?

Clickety click,

behind a door.

I’m glad

that door is closed

between a pecking sound

and me - for sure

that sound is not for me – knock, knock -

because if I crack open

the little door’s edge, I will surely want to change

whatever’s lurking there

and it might, maybe, turn me

into more of what I am

or whatever I could be.