Woke up from a dream about oranges,
in the garbage box of Bucharest,
within the walls of my two-bedroom cell.
Of all people, my best friend is the sky
which – every morning – taps on my window with blue.
It’s only seven thirty, but outside
all spots are taken on the street to work.
The cars crawl noisily toward a new “I’m late”-ness.
I am in the middle of my life, but it doesn’t show.
I took an aspirin and the coffee
keeps my heart beating.
When life ends, do you still go to work?
In the grave, do they scratch your car?
Do you get melted asphalt on your shoes?
Will there be a sky,
to tap on my window with blue?
(© C.S.Begu. All Rights Reserved)
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