Its quiet. Besides the train.
Its early. The sun wrestling the horizon.
The drip of the shower.
The mix of coffee. Light oat milk.
In a bowl. Cinnamon, egg, sugar.
Sizzle in the pan. The scratch of a podcast. Rumblings of a radio show.
Mornings. Speed past the one streetlight.
The smell of vinyl and books submerged between.
It’s quiet.
Besides the murmured voices of others.
Let’s not take forever,
Or take all day.
No end in sight.
Flipping through.
Its quiet. Besides the static of forgotten boomboxes.
It’s the middle of the day.
Like being stranded in a place,
But not being stranded, all the same.
It’s curious to the regular eye.
But it’s just a day,
In a week,
Trying to reach what most never seek.
