Poem 412 – 06:00

The silent homes are waking,
Hands pulling at the blinds,
To see if sunrise is yet here,
And if it is, to try,
And snatch another hour of sleep
But across the city’s halls and streets
The sweepers and the cleaners greet
The morning as their unwanted friend,
Not choosing this way to earn their bread,
But doing so to survive,
Rising before the day begins
To scrub the mess of those who sleep
That the sweepers might stay alive.
No choice in this, or else in this:
No choice to dream and strive.