the mornings bridges bark
but that doesn't matter to you
is full and the heart, just empty enough
and carry conversations about rocks
sold on Polk street
that can break you sideways,
grant silver lips auspices
and reminds the moon to blink
looking forward to the next hit.
but brunch was good,
the bus ride home, empty
but you can't blame them for that.
they wake up empty,
unfueled, humming without emission.