The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and wave at a stranger,
on his way to his truck full of tools and thatched ladders
and a shabby fast food breakfast and brought coffee
that is never hot enough,
in a way that says
I promise I will make out of this Sunday
everything you would have
if you'd the time.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
with his head and shoulders hanging from his bedroom window
and his nose clear in the early blues of daylight
and the rooms behind him still full of night
in a way that says,
to the walking man's dog
straining against purple faced unconsciousness
to know what is buried a little farther out
just one more inch away,
if we were together
there'd be no leash
because I'd be there
wondering step for step with you.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
and bury his eyes
in the advancing squares of film strip sidewalk and
his hands deeper into his pocket
and his teeth deeper into his bottom lip
in a way that says
to the girl walking opposite
and timing her steps, unknowingly,
to pass him where the sidewalk narrows to a single shoulder width
I won't tell anyone
where we've been
if you don't.
The morning smells.
In a way that can induce a boy to smile
at the birds, like tin windup frogs in ghillie suits
jumping into and out of the evergreen slump and froth
of a bush that has mated itself
to the banister of the weather blackened porch work
that is staying cool as the underside of a hiking trail log
despite the rising sun,
in a way that says
I've been waiting for
wing friendly weather just as long as you
and I'm going to sing about it too.
