The First Shift

The coffee maker gasps and then goes still,

a wet, mechanical cough in the kitchen sink.

I’ve spent the night following an electronic trail

of old emails, watching the cursor blink.

Then the first one starts—a sharp, gray sound

that cuts right through the hum of the fridge.

It’s a robin or a jay, claiming the ground,

while I’m still standing on the same tired bridge.

The light hits the unwashed plates in the basin,

grainy and flat, making the grease look like pearl.

I am the only one left in this empty station,

watching the morning slowly begin to unfurl.

They sound so busy out there in the trees,

building and killing and starting the day,

while I’m just a ghost with cold coffee and knees

that forgot how to carry the night away.