The 6:10 Ritual

The guy in 4B has a diesel engine

that sounds like a bag of hammers

falling down a flight of stairs.

At 6:10, the bedroom window glass

starts to chatter in the frame.

I don't need an alarm anymore.

I just wait for the smell of it,

that heavy, oily cloud

curling under the streetlamp

while he lets it idle,

before he shifts into gear

and leaves me with the silence

of another day starting.