Morning of unease

First thing at dawn, curtains open to this now repeated sight. The empty road echoes with the sound of impending parades of grey. The windows dusted, and shutting out reflections, the passer bys walk forward with heads down, towards unwanted shifts, beckoning hangovers, and unwelcoming kin. As that first bus creeps along tarmac, and drowns out the rolling chip papers and half filled bottles, last nights residues claiming their stake, I wash up and drink that first tea, ready to nurse the day ahead, bone like fingers that clash like chimes, In time with the head pounds and fragmented returned visions, the frosted morning looks inviting, and calls with out use of name or actions. I take this in at steady pace, single file movements; animated flashes.