It’s how we turn our hips To face the looming day Ready to learn in a lurch To mark the scents of sorrow In revolutions per sunrise Undulations per sunset lost.
To be a waking animal at nightfall A sleeping tinkerer by day To meet the hips that turn and jerk To accentuate these mournings of May.
The salty air evades Cannery turn to Mall The merchants are asleep, The truckers in revolt, Yet I cannot sleep nor read At hours of my choice. Cannery row, empty at this hour Cannery row, angry at this hour Of beginnings and dawns.
Monterey, CA (6 AM, 5-16-96)