There are animals here
who have rubbed themselves
raw on mornings like these
recalling robinsong
& lovesap before
the decibels of jets.
They peer thru gauze
at the cool desired blue.
Shaved & alarmed
into daylight
they weigh their lives
against the balance-sheet of sky
draw breath & drive deadlined
into forests of stone.
****************************************************************************************
Retired for a decade now, I remember it too well–what a soulless work-day and rush-hour are like. At odds with necessity are nature’s beauty and the bright blue dream of love. Instead, a certain mechanical/automated response called “making a living” and a hardness (c.f. “Concrete Sea”, an old tune by The Poppy Family) and a numbing alienation within. Might have also called this The Ruts of Our Lives.