Blue sky with blacktop in the early morning.
A flock of birds takes a surprise curve over my glass,
a car-toting mattress heads to unload
on the strip – the dump, salt heap and peaks
of scrap metal. An old fire truck slinks
past its final resting place. What if we crank open
the window, not afraid of death taking
notice, take in February as it is –
unshaven, mottled skin, held by
roots and armpits, calm and rough built
before the season of erotic grooming?