listening to its groove
and British news,
bent over a typewriter
trying to find fire
in the morning mist.
where the marigolds yawn
and the roosters scream,
I crack my knuckles
on nouns and verbs,
dirty my fingernails
on bad poetry and worse jokes,
bleeding like the river.
refusing to leave
until done or out of inspiration,
an unlit cigarette hangs from my lips,
a pencil rests behind my ear,
and I steer this dawning ship
through the windows of my world
as Manhattan makes breakfast
and Brooklyn breaks my heart.