At 615 the streetlamp is still humming

At 6:15, the streetlamp is still humming,

a lonely buzz against the porch’s peeling light.

Then the screen door across the alley groans,

and he steps out, holding a black rubber mat.

He swings it twice against the brick chimney.

Whack. Whack.

A cloud of gray skin and city grit

shivers out into the damp morning air.

It’s a brutal kind of clockwork.

He’s clearing out the dirt of yesterday

with a violence that feels like a prayer,

or at least a way to make sure the day has started.