Soft Enquiry of Morning
He wakes too early on Saturday morning,
last night’s pub celebration clamoring
smack between two furrowed brows.
Thinking man’s brows, can judge the sea
with merely a glance to know if the traps
are full, if there will be money tonight.
I need a smoke, he thinks, cracks a can
of anything lager to take the edge off,
looks back in his sheets to the sleeping
cello of naked woman, her back turned
toward him, her face turned so that sky
will be what she sees on fluttering awake.
The failed garden outside brings a scent
of yeasty mildew—it’s that time of year
and he does not work the land.
Street sounds bellow inside his head
as he touches the curve of her hip.
This is a small town, and she is a small-town
Paths map the fog that will hold their silence,the gray dawn, a confessional, absolves their sin.