The mailman rides a motorbike down

the sidewalk, slides letters under

doors. A drunk sits on the curb

holding his head in his hands. A

couple hours ago he was crying,

or singing, or laughing, I’m

not sure which. I woke up to his

voice in the night. He probably doesn’t

remember. A few kids are on

their way to school. It’s early.

I walk the dogs before the

heat descends.

by Cher Bibler