Tobi Cogswell

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

woman. No promises given, none received.

Paths map the fog that will hold their silence,

the gray dawn, a confessional, absolves their sin.