Matins

The stars are tin-foil bright
as long as the offices are dark; through
sheaves of the New York Times I try to read
my way back down. It's all as watchable
as someone who never says
how long they'll stay. On a Monday

like any other, too cold for snow,
without me, nothing's changed. In the gym
the hotel shares the pre-work work outs
will get going at five. Outside the library;
each head on a monolith paw,
the Aslan lions sleep on:

the fountains frozen, the park
pale with frost, my plane a trail of latte cloud to go …
Off their running machines, waking up,
they'll be walking to work -
the big-eyed goddess of Starbucks cups
the only face tilted up at the sky.