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?