There used to be something romantic about 5 am.
The quiet newness, and still-shaky legs of a brand new day.
The air used to be electric, like you were doing something you shouldn’t be,
like you were part of a secret club, and in a way, I guess you were.
In the car during the dark winter mornings
the heater works overtime defrosting the windows
An unmanned CBC plays aboriginal talk radio
and I turn it down low to remind myself that I’m not the only person on the planet