Exactly 11’o clock!

The streets are dark and quiet,
dispelled childhoods tucked deep into beds
of rubber, bleach, contact tracing —
when I look around me I see
my bare feet are blue & bleeding;
I see small swarms of cheeky mongoose rushing
from trash can to trash can
leaving filmy residue on the carpet street walk
down the lane for a while with me
and see what I see.

Exactly, on the nose
11 o’clock.

Soft snores underneath the verandah window
piled high in concrete structures tacked solid
with bits of pine, windows closed, windows open
the people sleep deep in a pacific midweek slumber.

Good for them.

Good for them, I say outloud,
good for the ones with their eyes closed
and their mouths silent afixed agape
low whistling, intake of breathing
count on your fingers deep sleep heart rate
tell me what you really find.

A bird whistles.
Chick-a-dee low whooping night bird
swinging in from Manoa’s mountains
rests above me on a poplar tree and
whistles.
Low whistle.
One more whistle.
As I scuff my feet against the street
the bird walks with me.

Feet find grass.
Soft grass.
Leaves of grass wrap in between toe beds
swishing lightly against the thick skin
the wind picks up and becomes
breeze again and the bird sings.

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