Rush Hour

A hermit thrush flits outside my office window
seeking a perch or a morsel from the concrete.
If I could open the window, I would offer her
space to cool her wings and quiet her panic,
sharing the same gift that the barista gives me
each morning when he kindly ignores that I am
obviously bleary-eyed and brightly-makeuped;
he takes his time steaming and frothing as if
he knows that I need the extra thirty seconds
to convince myself that peace is as necessary
as this cup of coffee to get through rush hour.

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