Café Dreams

Concrete hums with cracks,
and tired feet with
a desperate luck,

mounted in stretched lines
over hills and river’s curve,
passing factory and shop,

between the towers
scrawled on stormy skies
with stacks of smoke.

A mourning sun howls
through raised gaps,
to faces that emerge

ever earlier from the ground
for Spring’s demands
and changing rules.

Hours of light are spent
behind glass doors by the river,
an exchange for the cold of night

and the dreams found in the café
over one or two or three
more drinks before the call.

The night howls too,
calling out for the prayer
of late, and precious rest.

Concrete hums with cracks,
and tired feet with
a desperate luck.

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