Day In, Day Out

I skim sun off the tops of buildings at 6 a.m.
to stick it in my jeans' fifth pocket on the right hip
where we used to keep soda tabs, when we were kids,
for luck. So while they fashion new and terrible instruments
to help deaden the pain and excise capital from the afflicted
I try not to listen, pretending my filing cabinets are benign,
running a forefinger over the smooth distinction and clarity
that's pressed to my denim hip, a reminder that the tedium
will wash over me in rolling waves of paper and platitudes,
and if the grinding surf finally bowls me over
and I am scattered on the rocks for seagulls
I still have the sun.