The kettle clears its throat before I do. Toast leans burnt-side down, ashamed. Somewhere a spoon rings its small alarm — the cat has already won the chair.
The driver hums a song two decades old. My window keeps a coin of orange light. Each stop exhales one shadow, then another — I ride the ache of almost being home.
The golden leaves dance softly in the breeze, As whispers of the season fill the air. Nature paints her canvas with such ease, Reminding us that beauty’s everywhere.
Left you leaning at the pharmacy door — black wing, bent rib, faithful to the rain. Whoever takes you home tonight will learn you always pull a little to the left.