Aubade

Whiskey snarls, the bluesy drawl
of a harmonica parsing breath

on the radio, weaving across
the staccato yellow meter

of the night half elided.
The one-way canon of engines

sings muted. Gazes swerve
to follow me, red floods their faces.

The blinkback seconds drawn long
in exhaustion or autonomic sympathy

for ears filled with sirens. Seizures
lock the lines of traffic at each

intersection. I tap bags of saline,
thirstier than John in Herod’s cistern.

Hyponatremia for every eye
in the waiting room while

I ply my trade outside. Mark
the doorframes of every room

in the city. I come for you