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Everyone is so sad these days
about the general shittiness of things—
how we neglect
and carelessly destroy
the world and each other
in small ways
in big ways.
Yet there are mornings we rise
to discover that
overnight the rain
has glazed the streets
for the summer sun to bake the day
like fresh bread.
People stream into the streets
to ply their trades:
the scent of cinnamon buns
sweetens my walk to work;
a policeman blows his whistle
and waves traffic through;
above us,
welders stitch I-beams together
with birthday sparklers
to shape a bridge;
below,
street crews in orange jumpers
connect underground pipes
so that I need only
press a park fountain button
when I am thirsty.
The music is undeniable—
one movement
after another,
like so many daily prayers
answered
we barely notice.
The rhythm is poignant,
intervals of internal
sadness
while outside the celebration
never stops.
