The coffee flavor wears my morning cravings.
It is me, the pragmatic trashcan fallen on its head,
Thrown away by the third floor neighbor while cleaning hers thoughts catcher,
The rain squashing her trusses, linden buds children's,
On the newspaper-smeared face of the window.
In the distance legs throwing windmills
To the compromises filled belly of the asphalt
That caresses the grass blades that never caught the daylight.