By Joe Engel

I choose an alarm clock to bully

my feet to the floor every morning,

out of blanket and bed

knowing the furless cat in this February.

Hurried to hurry in the dark 

where the moon hangs orange often

to signal any fortune, 

before it goes under, any ease

in the weather at least

for those of us rolling out,

our headlights like projectors 

casting turns in early day.

Today no moon, and the spoilers say 

there is freezing rain  

we get to salt and chip,  

before we move to classrooms

where the salt we laid rides shoes

inside to tile floors,

like stars scattered in labs and hallways

galaxies we dissolve 

and hours we navigate

with a mop splashing like an oar.