the cool crisp morning
when all the revelers
have dispersed and gone home
to entomb themselves behind curtains and under sheets
and the homeless winos have sunken back
into their dark corners, to escape the rising june sun
their shady recesses are the only places they can claim for themselves
in a world indifferent to them
and the gypsy children have returned to their ramshackle houses
to hand their pickings back to their fathers and mothers
and the musicians that were hitting those notes
hitting those chords
feeling it... the great IT
they too sleep off their weariness
as a cat slinks off under a stairway
nobody stirs
just a bird overhead gliding silently by
as I sit on this balcony
and smell the cool sweet fragrance of morning
what good are all the highs we chase
and all the moments of ravenous joy
all that greedy clutching at dissemblance
disguised as meaning
if all they leave us is sick
and unable
to see the world
reveal itself to us
and only us
at 6am on a sunday morning?
