The alarm was rarely needed. 

Some circadian drum sounded each morning in His bones.

The coffee, a ritual. A black pool welling in the small space of a mug.

World’s Best Grandpa.

Half a tank could get him anywhere. Up streets, down boulevards. He knows the route and doesn’t need to spring his eyes of sleep.

The spill of light across the pavement as the garage doors open. The drag of unwanted objects cemetery slow across front drives to the public domain of curbs.

The dawn is a bare whisper still - grey and muddled illumination that can’t compete with the stubborn streetlights.

“Cleanin’ out. ” A question but too well versed to still have inflection.

Tugging a box/bureau/bag, the Owner :

“Hope the city will take it.”

The smirk says sharp - the only keen impulse left in His routine.

“May, may not. “ 



The blip of brake lights. Trundle of tires. Into the mists of the morning again, tailgate barely closed. Truck swollen with the discarded.

The city might pick it up.

or they may not.