Hanging by a thread

traversing from web to web

a silken route map

Blazing red and gold

the morning sky promises

new frustrations

Words of an old song

and melody awaken

memories of love

Day moves in gently

pushing aside wrinkled sheets

from pinky grey skies

The sun peaks over

the horizon to check first

night is in retreat

In a shanty town

a battered old typewriter

finds a young poet

Sleep drifts in at last

cat curling behind the knees

book falls to the floor

No social distance

unmasked kids cluster around

cans and bags of chips

Sitting by Costa

somewhere a wife and kid wait

afraid of the streets