Friday in paradise
the marching band
is playing
up and down the
streets

you can hear
the misfits banging
pots and pans
from their camp
to match them

their timpani and snare

the sun is
strong-arming
the night

and with it
any dreams
that try to linger

I can smell the coffee in the windows
feel
the fat of sleep
around my eyes

- to the trenches

to the shower stalls
and the buttered bread
the work boots
the shirt/suits

and the
bus
stops

there is someone
lying
in
the
street.