getting up at six.
black coffee in the dark.
porridge reading
poems from japan.
night drawing back
over the village
slowly.
at precisely eight
somebody drilling
instructions barked
across the brittle air.
the stream of cars
steadily increasing
until they flash by
interchangeably.
monk tinkling
on my stereo at nine
free-form piano
anachronistic brass.
on sundays
all you do
is wait and watch.
the day starts
at ten o'clock
when the supermarkets open.
