The Cleanup Crew

At three in the morning,
the city shows its seams:

a kettle ticking
in an empty kitchen,
a lift stalled between floors,
one blue television
breathing behind a curtain.

The hero arrives in wet shoes,
one glove missing,
rain darkening his sleeve.

He throws his thread
from roof to roof,
ties the dark together,
strand by patient strand.

Below him,
the windows hold their faces.

Behind one:
a woman awake,
listening to the pipes.

Behind another:
a child with one palm
pressed to the glass.

Above him, the broken skyline
hangs in its own reflection—
bright, unfinished.

At first light,
the brooms come out.

Each stroke turns up
another piece of sky.