These Mornings

I wake before day, before the birds wake me instead,
cycling a mile into town
to set out for my spot on the dock.

The day’s itinerary is expected —
the familiar paper of the to-go cup of joe and the heat
of it pressed against my chest.

I have memorized the rhythm of the waves
tapping against the wooden columns
eroded by sea fungus and
impaling the water that stands below.

The usual crowd rises with the sun —
first the golden retriever, whom everyone knows,
greets the old geezers carrying fishing rods
with licks incomparably sticky to the
minnows in their coolers.

Next is the flower man in the pinstripe suit,
peeking into Anne’s furniture store —
reaching for the doorknob —
but turning back to place the flowers into the mailbox, yet again.
Twigs of lavender yesterday, blushed lilies today,
tomorrow, who knows.

The girl with yellow hair brings the breads to the cafe by 6 every morning —
It is 7. One-hour-late bagels paired
with saliva from a dog with no name
and a hopeless love bound together by twine.

The day ages slowly and along with it comes the wind.
Normally, I would rise and leave.
Today, I plant my napkin down to the bench with a pebble
and finger through my pockets for a pen.

I make bets with myself before biking back.
The geezers’ next bait will be nightcrawlers.
Pinstripe will bring carnations tomorrow,
and yellow hair will make it to the cafe by 8 —
8 for disappointment purposes.

The wind pushes my bike faster than I peddle.
My beat quickens
as I think of biking back tomorrow,
buying the same joe and
beckoning the sun to rise as it always has.