When the murky morning fog come shifting through the mists
The light devours the shadows in stunted slickery lisps
When the streetlamps and the stoplights paint impressionistic on rainy roads
The ozone stenches the oxygen with lowered transportation modes
When the Doppler whizzes past me through the lowered window of mine
The colors surprised to appear on the vehicles from out of shadows blind
When I slow to prepare a turn at the corner to accelerate to speed
The faithful runners slap the asphalt path with faithful runner’s feet.
And I drive through the rising sun to not see the break of day
Except when the working whistle blows and I’ll reverse my way.