Ode to a Morning

By Matt Perez

The brisk air, sharp as a sword

Slices the skin of his cleanly shaved face,

Like the cup of dark magma

Tastes bitter and burns alongside the

Mint liquid spit from his mouth into the bushes.

He settles into his cooling chamber,

Like a child entering a doctor’s office

Eyes wide open, blinded by nature,

Traverses the streets like Daredevil.

No construction crew to accompany him,

Led by machines -- dead cold steel,

Joined only by yellow submarines --

Same place, different location.