The mentioned drapery is a tuneful gold
instead of smashing red silk,
following eight-o-clock light
out of windows or guitar cases.
I massage the rayon-blend
in a sudden waft of ecstasy,
having woke around gray firmament
that lifts buttered expressions and eclairs.
The air smells like black coffee
saturated by grindstone,
yellow blouses marked down
beside competent suits climbing up.
Everyone in the city ruins
their imagined breakfast to meet the metro,
alert with deep, savvy breaths
and spared livelihood.
In the cool pressing of emptied stars
time becomes quiet alarm,
gathered newspapers and brief kisses
herald the ten-to-four.