At six o’clock we are waiting for coffee, 1
waiting for coffee and cinnamon rolls 2
served from the kitchen 3
— like kings of old, or a miracle. 4
It is still dark. The first bus of the day 5
has just passed in the street. It is so cold 6
we had hoped for coffee. And that the sweet rolls 2
will be one loaf each. At seven o’clock I step outside
for the first time all day. I stand for a minute alone
then walk away. My day now consists of two cups of coffee 1
and the rolls in my pack. That’s what I think about,
and whether the sun is going to shine,
and whether there are clouds. I don’t think about what minute
I’m going to do this or that all day. I ride the bus, or walk,
or type in a poem when I can. I am given food
at certain places in the city. Each person I know
receives certain things when they go eat food
or when they sleep in the shelter, and each person
is deprived of certain things too. I have something
in abundance they don’t have, and they have things
I want that never arrive. All of us seem to want coffee 1
in the morning when we wake up. Some of us stand around
waiting for a miracle. I can tell what they say to each other,
but no one else seems to be able to do that.
From the doors come the smell of coffee, 1
it is six a.m., and the galleries of marble are open.
Each day in the sun, I sit for awhile on a park bench.
I look forward to it, as you look forward
to sitting on a couch and watching television,
or listening to the radio. There is always a dog around.
A window opens across the street, as if all this were working,
and we were going to find jobs, and you were waiting for me.
You sit in the morning in some invisible place, and drink coffee. 1