Six Forty-Seven

The coffee's on, a patient drip,

I'm halfway through the morning sip.

Then, from next door, the daily sign,

a rusty groan, precisely mine.

The garage door, a weary sound,

pulls itself up from the ground.

At six forty-seven, like a clock,

it wakes the silence, with a shock.

He backs his car, the engine purrs,

then silence falls, the world demurs.

And I'm left with the air, still cold and new,

and just that sound, to get me through.