Poetry
In response to a prompt on Early Morning
night’s breath is still frozen on the lawn
and it’s grey as a cracked eyelid
considering another half hour of sleep
the school bus roars reality
through the neighborhood, hot and reeking
lumbering ahead of the red fire it trails
piercing an early fog that will
sigh and disappear before I’ve even
had the time to pour a cup and toast
the return of this awakening backwards fade
