Before the Buses
Five-ten. Still dark.
Frost on the bins in the yard,
like feldspar, thin and hard.
I kneel at the sink with a wire
and a bucket marked MOP,
a mechanic of nothing,
a priest of the stop.
For a month the water stood,
gray, patient, refusing.
I brushed my teeth around it
the way you step around a dog
asleep in the hall,
or a sentence you won’t finish,
or a call.
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(it’s only a drain)
(everything is only a drain)
The wire finds the knot.
Something gives with a sound
like a cello clearing its throat,
glunnk, glunnk-ooo,
and the whole gray month goes down
to the river under town
to be forgiven, and float.
I open the window wide.
Cold air comes in and finds
the corners where the warm air hides.
Pipes tick. The kettle sighs.
Down the street the first bus kneels
at the curb for someone slow,
then lifts, and goes.
Let everyone awake this early
with a stopped-up thing
feel it give, and hear it sing.
Let the water go
where water’s meant to go.
