morning

He sings on the corner

or raps, whatever

waking pigeons out my window

who coo along in time.

Must be Wednesday, or Saturday

morning

he’s always waiting for the first bus out.

I wonder where he goes

so regularly yet infrequently

I wonder if he knows

even these thick windows don’t keep his voice out

I wonder if he cares,

as I get worked up over this

insensitive alarm clock and contemplate calling

No, I don’t think that’s right.

Still, I wonder if he’ll ever get better.

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