Breakfast

I'm just about
wondering when the sun will be cracked
from an egg,
and fried over the city,
the way it usually happens.
I can see it all coming,
so I wait
feeling that chill,
feeling that
morning
feeling that
heave of disaster.

Even the sky is tired,
he glows purple
trying to cup the
city in his hands.

I see myself in the
shaky silouhettes of trees
and in the long pause.

I'll bet you
will feel it too
when you see the
wet pavement
kissing pine.