That window, even screened,
allows lady beetles.
Luck sprinkles the ceiling.
Magazines and perm rollers
litter your flat like
so many sweets
beaten from a donkey.
But right now, little matters
except butter. Butter, you hope,
will armor you: against
the city's parasitic grit,
against your bus mate's
accosting grin. The coarsest of
sentiments slipping
past manilla teeth.
Morning breathes her last. Your
metronome quickens as the wind
hijacks Adhan,
presses traces of worship
against your hips, and
trails you to the door.
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