Today plays the hangover suite

March of the bicarbonate sodas

The city groans

from beneath grey blankets

of damp cloud and concrete

Missed her alarm, still dozes

All quiet like Sunday

No trains, no planes

The quiet, it abstains

from being broken

by helicopter’s drone

In the dark pre-dawn

almost alone

A wheezing cough

in the distance

Disembodied voice

from the fog says

Smoke if ya got ’em

Laughter carries

riding upon the mists

to settle upon windshields

Chariots sleeping

To later freeze

and thaw again

The moisture survives

where laughter evaporates

When again the city wakes

Pavement still analog

What sounds this silence breaks

and whither goes the fog?