6 AM

The truck backs up at 6 AM

with that sound—the high beeping,

the way metal protests against itself,

against the day that's barely started.

I lie in bed listening to the hydraulic arm

extend slowly, lowering something

someone else is waiting for.

The industrial precision of it,

the fact that nothing hesitates,

nothing second-guesses the descent.

It knows exactly what it's doing.

It lowers, and the world keeps turning.

Someone signs for something.

The truck pulls away.

By 6:15 it's gone and the building

is quiet again, but I'm awake now,

thinking about all the deliveries happening

while I sleep, all the precision

occurring in the dark,

all the things arriving at people's doors

who never even heard them come.