the cold still owns the street,
but the sun hangs around
like it’s checking the pockets
of an old coat
and finds a match,
a good one.
the earth shifts,
the dial clicks forward.
people don’t celebrate this day,
not really,
but they should.
hope isn’t a parade.
it’s a half-inch of daylight,
a cheap gift,
a lousy tip,
and you take it anyway,
because you remember
what long nights can do
to a man.
so you pocket the light,
order another round of morning,
and mumble to no one
in particular:
keep coming back,
kid.
