My Night Begins At Dawn
(Written in Toronto)
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Just got back from Toronto this weekend. Instantly fell in love with that city. This is what was scribbled in my notebook one morning as I strolled these Canadian streets.
MY NIGHT BEGINS AT DAWN
SuspeckTed
Is it within walking distance,
Or would I walk there?
Knowing me is knowing these two questions,
Have two different answers.
I'm addicted to,
Backpacks,
Curb-side empty coffee cup-holding coin-jingling,
Street performers.
I walk in the shaded side of the street,
So I can avoid those squinting in the sun
Throwing glances at my hands,
Conducting the beats in my headphones.
The change in my pocket jingles,
But the weight is only decreased,
Every other block,
Saving enough for a muffin,
and burnt coffee.
Neither attainable this day now that reverse insomniacs like I,
Become in short supply.
We eat little and take up a lot of time.
Taking up ink to the accompaniment of
Old Navyesque soundtracks,
Booming from the fashion show led by eternal manequins.
How dare they dance when these,
Old and young men sleep on their stoops,
No longer seeing them, Too catchy is the rhythm.
These streets are comfortably messy,
Sloppy as my rhyme schemes,
As frustrating as watching these morning plumbers,
Unclog all of my pipe dreams.
With caffeine and pastries,
Dying my skin a healthy urban glow,
So that I need not draw back the curtains of the hotel room,
To wake the others.
They can see by my rubber-tire scuffed pant cuffs,
That I have already staked claim to the morning,
The scorn of weekend sleep-in,
Night owls.
I brush off last night's bar tabs
Seeking leaning forward back aches on small round tables,
With an empty second chair.
Empty, Except for the morning,
Who doesn't always greet me with a smile,
But it forgives my sins and sits quietly,
Patient with lower extremities,
To carry me to the next uncharted locale.
Breathing boutiques calling out to my insecurities,
Everything must go failed business ventures,
These won't be faced for another few hours.
I'm already on my second cup,
bathing in,
"Yes, we're open"s,
Or "Sundays - Closed."
When I trip up the curbs and
Past single gated tree trunks,
I am sleeping,
My night begins at dawn.
MY NIGHT BEGINS AT DAWN
SuspeckTed
Is it within walking distance,
Or would I walk there?
Knowing me is knowing these two questions,
Have two different answers.
I'm addicted to,
Backpacks,
Curb-side empty coffee cup-holding coin-jingling,
Street performers.
I walk in the shaded side of the street,
So I can avoid those squinting in the sun
Throwing glances at my hands,
Conducting the beats in my headphones.
The change in my pocket jingles,
But the weight is only decreased,
Every other block,
Saving enough for a muffin,
and burnt coffee.
Neither attainable this day now that reverse insomniacs like I,
Become in short supply.
We eat little and take up a lot of time.
Taking up ink to the accompaniment of
Old Navyesque soundtracks,
Booming from the fashion show led by eternal manequins.
How dare they dance when these,
Old and young men sleep on their stoops,
No longer seeing them, Too catchy is the rhythm.
These streets are comfortably messy,
Sloppy as my rhyme schemes,
As frustrating as watching these morning plumbers,
Unclog all of my pipe dreams.
With caffeine and pastries,
Dying my skin a healthy urban glow,
So that I need not draw back the curtains of the hotel room,
To wake the others.
They can see by my rubber-tire scuffed pant cuffs,
That I have already staked claim to the morning,
The scorn of weekend sleep-in,
Night owls.
I brush off last night's bar tabs
Seeking leaning forward back aches on small round tables,
With an empty second chair.
Empty, Except for the morning,
Who doesn't always greet me with a smile,
But it forgives my sins and sits quietly,
Patient with lower extremities,
To carry me to the next uncharted locale.
Breathing boutiques calling out to my insecurities,
Everything must go failed business ventures,
These won't be faced for another few hours.
I'm already on my second cup,
bathing in,
"Yes, we're open"s,
Or "Sundays - Closed."
When I trip up the curbs and
Past single gated tree trunks,
I am sleeping,
My night begins at dawn.
