7am Poem. Driving North Sunrise

Loops and tumbles - white plastic bag
crossing the road in fading breezes.

She traipses, staggers,
danced in speeding, dying spins
from passing cars. She’s

ballet in silk dives
of performance dresses,
legs and drowsy arms.

Day in early August and she’s
the yawning traveler, artful and
staggering out of the sun’s hard weight

with our unspeaking dreams that
rustle and reach upward into the fresh
of this morning:

where I can see the man in
white pants and kaki shirt.

In the restaurant’s white,
he shuts off stainless-gray machines around him -
nubs of bright-metal switches.

He unpins his all-night baker’s apron,
lifts it off. It
pirouettes a collapse to the floor.

Wordless dreams rustle upward,
make the coming day.

 

© Tim Bellows