Dry, hot iron

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

Last night was garbage night.

The morning smells

Of wet, sweet concrete

Coupled with the apparition of sour trash

I kiss the cheek of my lady

Goodbye and good day

Rolling like early morning thunder

People in pyjamas drag back

Empty bins from a rain-stained curb

Sausage vendors fire charcoal grills

Peering at the morning shuffle

Behind a line of soda pop companies

Bleary eyed streetcars shamble by

Eating up early track slicked with dew

I shuffle to work on my day off

To pick up my pay

Thirty thousand pennies and a free drip coffee

Perks of the job augment my hours for sale

Buju Banton sings about walking like a champion

Through white iPod ear buds

The buds begin to peek on the trees

Rubbing dew from sleepless petals

The THC in my bloodstream amplifies the affect

A wet Wednesday in Toronto

So obviously Spring

Working on my fifth coffee of hour three

My agenda is brimming with nothing

Buy food for my kitty

Eat buffet sushi

Pull some lines from my brain

Turn them into an ink stain

The streetcar now grinds

On sanded, dry, hot iron

Same goes for the caffeine in my bloodstream

Today will be fine

I can feel it in my bones

We both grind our way home.

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