Tuesday morning

Time drives people along
sluggish grey spaces to
places they’ve promised their
peace to; where they offer
hours in exchange for rent
and for towers in which
to feed their peace of mind.

Today sounds like a perpetual
meeting between rubber and
rain, a thick grey song squared
and neatly filled in.

This morning no sirens fly by.

Perhaps the rain has come
To clear away the trauma left
by some on those other days,
The sunny days on which we
Crashed, and some of us died.