Morning
Sun pours in
through honey curtains
Spills on the place where your
forehead shapes into
brown locks,
gathers in a warm window
on the floor
On the street below,
somewhere
people walk by talking
You smell of sheets and sun on skin
It’s Tuesday.
My morning shift looms in the air
as it goes by
My boss will call soon
voice reeking
of walk-in fridge
and dish sanitizer
The sun window
shrinks as the morning
passes