Morning

A flooded elevator shaft
taken over by fish
with their dead motionless eyes.
The fancy carpet laden with floral
imagery, and the Art Deco door frames
now fading away into dull featureless wreckage.

A hole in the wall tavern where the city
would gather and express its angst
in vulgar conversations, tight dresses,
and music played on second hand instruments.
The drums would set the tempo of their hearts.

The lights stayed on as the ocean
pulled back and the bottom feeders,
in the shallows, all drowned in the open air.
The giant wave like the pocket knife
of a God, peeling the skin off a pear
to take a cleaner bite.
No chance remained for endless night.
The water in their lungs was like the morning.

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