The guard lets us in, proclaims
“She ain’t open until oh-eight,”
The building full of studios
for artists, like who dares put
time limits on art, or a muse?

I am a word-man, hemmed in
By bright visual images
Arranged by Euclid’s soul-kin
In neat rows, the kind would make a
Drill sergeant grin like he just too
A bite of some recruit’s green ass,
Smiles at sheer squared-away-ness,
While I drift sleep deprived,
Await the light rising up from east
Twilight becoming dawn slowly
Before light tries to assert life
Or what pretends such gravitas.

A block away bankers play their
Mind-games with specie, currency
As much the fiction as wall-art.