blackbirds are screaming
on telephone poles, irate shrills
provoked by daybreak.
They are so loud
starbucks can't hear my order,
"black?," No, "one cream, one sugar."
I roll my window and sip
bitter coffee disguised as palatable,
this is why we like it, the disguise.
there's a hearse rolling down
a street of paint-chipped houses
and my eyes are all that follow it.
it might not have anyone,
I say to my daughter,
but she is asleep and does not hear me.
I watch until sunlight,
glinting off black paint,
directs my eyes to the road before me.
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