Poetry: Morning Nostalgia

There was something almost musical in the way the morning went.
In the way Denison was packed at 6 a.m.,
the construction workers packing into the small lot
next to SAE.
Twenty-three degrees,
frost everywhere; on windshields; via breath; In the air.
Two guys in orange vests in one truck laughing at another
who, backing his small white car into a spot, hit the curb; locked eyes with them; and laughed.
Yet when I see them, I see a glimmer of myself.
My eyes transform like fire,
that encounters a chemical spill in the grass it burns,
creating an aroma about as soothing as fresh brewed coffee or freshly baked bread.
I see my dad in his jeans, four-inch rolls of building plans under one arm, hardhat in the other,
way back when I was 13. I see the way his truck tires were always dirty
the mud of a job site 30 miles across Phoenix
painting it like frosting on the edge of cake, or the adobe walls of the Mayans.
I see the jokes my friends and I in the army used to tell,
one pulling a parking maneuver that bordered on illegal
to get into a small Fort Bliss parking spot just in time for Physical training,
and that same soul getting teased for rest of the day.
The music of life can hit us when we’re not always ready.
It can hit us blindside with nostalgia so hard that if you were a hockey player,
it’d get suspended for the hit.
Kind of like today. As I went for pizza. After five hours of sleep. Waking up from a 20 hour day.
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