My morning walk, so important to me,
Alone with the dark as comfort,
Mondays always into town
Passing poorly maintained
Row houses, then
Chained to a paint chipped porch,
Two old rusted bikes grab my attention,
Better than walking to work.
Inside the journeymen sleep
Dreaming their wishful fantasies,
At best, a kaleidoscopic future.
I understand so little of their lives,
How they survive, feed their children,
Save for a kitchen table or toaster oven.
I’m outside, but I know in my head, I
Need them, their youth, energy, optimism.
They need me too, to pay cash and
Not abuse their delicate dreams.