morning comes

he shines
with a stiff
brush,
in the near dark,
his shoes.
folds his
pants
and sets them
on the stand.
puts a clean
shirt
on a hanger,
on the door
knob.
tomorrow comes
too quickly
without
dreams.
the days
are slow dying,
marching
one foot, one
hour in front
of the next.
he lies in bed
alone,
and waits
for morning,
then morning
comes.