Them Lake Street Drunks

Eight in the morning, sun slanting through the cracked blinds
cranky and bright
as I feast on cereal and coffee,
shuffling face cards and mispronouncing names of birds in the bay window,
while the trash trucks gang up on the one-way’s cans,
stalling the morning commute:
these are the times like these;
times that I miss you the most,
more than usual,
more than always,
like I always do.