Summer walk, 6 a.m. Still dark,
he pulls on the sleeveless top —
white, brand name: Chico’s.
Clouds buoy a waning moon —
a gray stasis, brushing
trees untroubled by wind.
Shadows hedge houses,
in the echo of his footfalls.
Dew has seeped through a car window.
Nightbirds flank him,
songless in the late hour.
Dimmer switches set low,
of still vacant kitchen tables.
He can’t put a name to this unsung ease
he feels, unbroken by a door slammed,
through the gaining light —
a young woman off to work,
her headlights eclipsing his eyes.