Morning

By DS Maolalai

--

overhead wires are detailed

in thin lines of snow. on the ground

nothing's detailed. ice thick

as a dinnerplate, brittle as over-

cooked steaks and the plates

which they sit on and snow

lies on that. I kick through the 5am

closed lights of chinatown

restaurants, over toward saint

patrick station, university

ave and the edge of the sky-

scraper neighbourhoods. stop

for a coffee and plastic-

wrapped bagel in corner cafe

chain, hunched under high

weights of offices. somewhere a train

creaks and buses stir, restless

as horses. my hands in my pockets

wear thin leather gloves, very stylish

and useless for cold. they stink

of stale beer and spilled

coffee from january mornings – an earthy

and hard-working smell.