I didn’t take a lot of pictures over the weekend, so here is a poem instead, about getting up and going to work.



Richard Kenney

Cold snap. Five o’clock.
Outside, a heavy frost – dark
footprints in the brittle
grass; a cat’s. Quick coffee,
jacket, watch-cap, keys.
Stars blaze across the black
gap between the horizons;
pickup somehow strikes
its own dim spark – an arc –
starts. Inside, familiar
metal cab, an icebox
full of lightless air,
limns green with dash-light. Vinyl
seat-cracks, cold and brittle;
horn ring gleams, and chrome
cuts hard across the wrist
where the sleeve falls off the glove
as moon-track curves its cool tiara
somewhere underneath your sleep
this very moment, love —