Daydream
by Olivia Belliveau
This is no morning. Light calls
the window clean, the shrunken
tomatoes of yesterday
brought to steaming. An apology
of body crowding the mirror. You
quietly hope the train station
has moved. Past a company
of dogwoods, slabs of sidewalk
and nothing. A scorch mark,
a pond. Where the tired baritone
of mechanical schedule once wailed –
now the voices of frogs waking up,
a child on the porch asking to make a wig
from sweet grass. The man who watches
the tracks spark and dash all day
stretches his neck, looks up –
A concrete sky dissolved – in its place,
a just-swept stage of mauve.
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