To The Morning (first letter)

It can be strange sharing you with the rest of the world.
Do you know what you’re missing when you’re not around?
There’s no carnival tonight, but the dumpster divers continue scurrying just below my window.  Thousands of artists attend professional development seminars in poorly lit back alleys. The air carries endless talk of relational activities and funding, world travel and best intentions.
The TV screen is rippling like the moon on fast water. Someone nearby has been smoking too much. The thought sinks in slowly.
It takes a long time for the sun to set.  The sides of some of the buildings downtown still look like they’re on fire.  I’m waiting for unpretentious couples with open bottles of wine, barter-system night markets, street gangs snapping their fingers in unison.
Now it’s dark. It’s very dark now. You’ll be arriving before we know it.
A fuzzy lyric tries to shut my eyes: It’s four in the morning and the bars are all closed.

You’ll have to let yourself in.