Off to work

A milky dawn rises over the suburb.
Rosy my cheeks, rosy the newborn sun on my skin…
I walk down the side street
and try to still the bats in the attic:
work to do, letters to write,
carry out projects, phone someone.

The bar-tabac* smells of coffee and ennui.
Fifteen minutes to buy cigarettes
because the man behind the counter,
glasses sparkling, whisker trembling,
complains about a fluttering heart
to a bartender who doesn’t care.

Down another side street
with grey facades and sleeping windows.
A streetsweeper, on the phone,
hoses down the pavement—
Putain, quel con!**”—
my blue jeans are soaked now.

There is the huge construction site
where cranes, still silent,
stretch skywards and whisper
to each other in their lost language.
I cross a handsome dude
and have to suck in my forty-year old little belly.

Then the main street:
to keep the ambient anarchy at bay
and still don’t make a difference.
School children mill around and yell.
It’s Friday morning, I’m already tired.


* In France: a pub where cigarettes are sold 
** "Damn it, what a jerk!"

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