Simple Pleasure

There is a poem in the morning
when I stand outside the gate,
A poem in the sunrise
as the city wakes.
Song so familiar we’ve almost lost the tune;
good morning chorus,
car door percussion,
exclamation of impatient horns,
steady beat of running feet,
and a melody as soft
as strands of mist among the trees.

I listen for the poem in the flow of everyday,
try to hear the whisper between the lines,
watch for signs as daylight comes.
Who knows?
Maybe today the curtain will rise on something new.

So I scan the faces as I pass,
Maybe this one?
Maybe not.

I know there is a poem,
cold-fingered now at dawn,
waiting for me beside the gate,
smiling in recognition
happy in the simple pleasure of good morning
stepping aside to let me in.