The man crosses the boulevard briskly.
The crepe-thin plastic bag swings as a pendulum with his broad strides.
It’s dark outside.
A toddler is crying for milk in apartment 33 B.
The man is in a hurry.

Have a nice day the bag proclaims.
The man knows it will be a long night.

A teenage driver, as he takes a break from his pondering of the day’s happenings,
notices the man crossing before him.
The man is in a hurry.

The driver is enjoying his time.
His curfew is flexible,
As is the rest of his life.
He knows it will be a good night.
He’s expecting wonderful dreams of the day’s happenings.
The driver knows that morning will come too soon.
The walking man knows that morning will come too soon.

The girl hums a lullaby in her head,
Looking for irregularities in the ceiling above her bed.
She’s content with her thump, strum, ring.
She is thinking of the day’s happenings.
She is thinking of the simple, pretty things.
Of childhood slides, jungle gyms, and swings,
Of colorful marionettes and their strings.
She is unaware of the morning.
Her mother taps her shoulder telling,
It is late; go to sleep.
Her mother knows that morning will come too soon.