First Shift

The sky is the color of a fresh hit,

a purple-gray that doesn't promise a thing.

The glass on the nightstand has left a ring

in the dust, a wet zero I’ve been staring at.

I haven't slept, and the bank is a shark

circling the drain of my checking account.

Then the bird starts.

A mockingbird on the fire escape,

doing its best impression of a dying starter motor.

It isn't a song. It’s a repetitive,

mechanical threat that the sun is coming

whether the money is there or not.