Sunday Before Seven

The street's single car
passed before me 
going where I will not go.

The stars are
not shining.
The clouds are shingling,

rooving and roving 
invisible swirls 
behesting the early day. 

The music and light do shine
where the hot water 
swirls visibly

and the several
already at hand
hand the day's rest
its broken fast.

We three screen people,
we people of the cups
we pint away at our quiet projects

tapping while droplets
tap the bottom
of paper cups.