I rub my scarred cornea,
brush a bread-specked platen down,
then mow the whole visual field:
Map and pen get swept across dust
edged out by routine place-setting
and dispatches about local property.
Folks bristle at the carve of a corridor
already lined with rimed pine tines
and wraiths bricking against the boulevard.
A hand there smooths blueprints,
pivoting burnisher in smallest parry
to flick at the nits of drying glue.
Morning is a few mugsful of dance:
I samba slow to the cat mewling;
turn an amusing Peabody at the crossword puzzle;
spin into a buttered bagel polka
like waltzing Mount Hood, ibex-kneed.
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