Preach
by Mae Grey
· 26/12/2025
Published 26/12/2025 17:57
The sky is the color of wet cement.
I’m still in the socks I wore to the rent.
The streetlights hum a low, yellow tune.
The sun is coming to the kitchen soon.
The first chirp hits like a nail in the wood.
I’d stop the morning if I only could.
On the power line, a black, feathered row.
They have somewhere they’re ready to go.