5 AM; Bag already checked.
Undoubtedly the traveler wandering

east —to—> west.
Coffee in hand, purposefully propped,
slowly undresses itself of the condensation
provoked, partially, by my neglecting lips…
…Lips presently clasped as my eyes
roam the rapid crowds.
Casually considering the blur of faces
flowing past me in waves…
…Waves of droplets beat against my leg
as the condensation

consumes the cup.
Energy buzzes, as a surge of blurry faces
crashes in —then—> out of view.
“All petals on a wet, black bough”
but what flowers released such petals?
& how deep could their roots grow?
I give in;
My eyes close as my lips finally
Connect with the straw.
Lips sip once,
Petals like vagabonds that never stay.
Eyes blink once,
As a new wave of petals surges my way.

*featuring a dash of Ezra Pound