Woodland Hills 6 A.M. even birds sleep in
heads tucked under wings - city dwellers on the high wire
waiting for a wake up call once haze burns off.
Hills are too steep to walk; they wake to talk
among themselves before taking flight. It has been
a long night in a quilted room where a man still dozes.
I go down the long slant to smog city where sharp
and witty are the order of the day. Warmth and quiet
lay behind artificial darkness of drapes pulled against
light heading west. Curls that imprisoned fingers are
at rest. The rise and fall of chest back there now as
high heels click on cement that won't hear a trace of
sound again until another hour is spent. A time for
monologues. To turn back and climb between sheets
would be wrong, but that's where I long to be or so
as not to disturb unbroken sleep, by the pool coffee
steaming in the cool mist as paper pages slowly turn.
There are wages to be earned away from where I
want to be where slender fingers held my hand as if
it were a source of life - fragile yet strong. It's a
long way into town. I have to be there before
eight. It's not too late to head back for soft
scrambled eggs. Instead, I totter on unwilling legs
when I would rather hear a soft, "I love you."
Dogs are still sleeping in the halls. The phone
won't start ringing for hours. He doesn't rise before
noon except on Wednesday, but an office waits out there
And a boss who needs attending to. It's not a total loss
I'll bring a paycheck home. We live at different ends
of the clock and I'm a block away. He will later say
"Theater next week?" It's our birthday date. I'll get
tickets for the show and he will cover dinner.
It's a tradition you know, one small piece of history.