Calgary at dawn

The city does not care how
It’s dawn begin. There are
Three ice cones under the eave
Two drunk men stagger on the street
A lonely car to the end of lane.
Some pale light far away
Some snow sweepers start to bray
And the street lamps extend to the highway
gradually quench for
The first beam of sunlight across the skyline
The second car fined for misalign
And the third time that vapor piles up from the chimney of
the chophouse where people dine.
Calgary is at its wake.