Morning wakes hours before its city creatures.
I see light through the shutters:
cool insides while their clapboards communicate color —
hydrangea pink, hydrangea blue —
to the morning. Slate gray street,
a herribone brick sidewalk.
coffee darker than their peignoirs.
It’s a holiday.
The 4th of the seventh month, almost mid-summer,
almost tipping over.
I like to think
they’re in their temple of freedom
in bed talking or kissing,
their call to arms
their own defense
of our freedom.