Your Muse is an Alcove in a Starbucks on Jasper

Among the rhythms you miss most is rising at half-past four,
hot shower,
kissing your wife who awakes from her dream, “Oh sweetheart,
have a beautiful day,” and falls back to sleep.
Elevator to courtyard,
you step out into the still dark city on a cold spring morning,
walk four blocks
under the silvery hearts of street lights
to arrive at the coffee shop just as it opens —
mop-damp floor, yellow A-frame sign,
baristas wiping counters,
still yawning,
coffee on but not yet ready — a spoonful
of anticipation.
And the regulars arrive, nod greetings,
claim their tables,
check their planets’ positions in the paper
and wait without drumming their fingers,
while ceiling speakers play Feist — I Feel It All.
“Your wish is my command,” smiles the barista,
although you hadn’t said a thing,
and you take your cup, sip, and settle in with your notebook,
knowing you have an entire two hours before
answering the bell.
And the shepherding wonders of dawn move over Jasper Ave.
      and the raspberry sun softens the tip of a high-rise,
            and the silver-ash hoarfrost feathers young leafless elms
                  and the panhandlers are brimming with coins,
and this small herd of angels, defenders of Costa Rican farmers,
      sit in circles of light —
lift you into the face of resplendence that lasts
      but a moment,
but in that moment, you set down your cup,
for it’s apparent,
you may write the best line of your life,
which, if timed perfectly,
will be your last.