Early Morning

A city that consists of tall towers
And asphalt roads. Half past four. Twelve degrees
Celsius. Twenty percent chance of rain.
Cloudy. Light wind. Dehydrated flowers
Droop under indifferent roadside trees.
A few cars pass. Somewhere starts the first train.

Lights are still on in some windows, signs of
Long empty nights spent not on sleep nor love.

On some thirteenth floor there is a watchman,
Middle-aged, sturdy, about six feet tall,
A paper cup in his hand, sitting on
An office chair by a window, his all-
Night shift near at an end, tired and wan,
His face devoid of any expression.