A Shabby Day

Out of doors, office-bound,
I breathe the exhaust of
trucks and buses, listen
to sirens, search for my
direction on a one-way street,
and the morning begins to
pucker my mouth as if I had
eaten sour grapes.

My work sheet lags behind the clock,
a tick-tock joke at my slow feet.

My reflection in a store window
reminds me of a stranger, I grimace
to consider my indenture to the
day’s facts.

I choose to think of libraries,
schools, playgrounds, parks with
flowers, the homes of friends,
and reject the presence of neon signs,
junkyards, dead elms, vacant lots
filled with tin cans. I stop at a
drinking fountain to rinse my mouth.