A watery dawn breaks over the rooftops
as I stumble through the concrete maze.
I hear the cars begin to rumble awake
and I find a place for my mind to refuel.
Inside footsteps shuffle, fridges hum,
it smells of newspapers and petrichor.
There’s a flickering yellow strip light,
and the noodles remember lockdown,
but then I hear “morning,” in an easy lilt,
and i see a beaming man, stocking milk.
We are on opposite sides of the clock,
both fighting sleep to make ends meet.
The aisles are stacked with nostalgia
there’s teacakes and macaroons galore
And chatting away at the till I wonder
What we’d do without the corner store.