8 A.M. by Bruce Gunther

I pass the beer trucks, 
the workmen staring
at a curbside hole,
the plastic grocery
sack blown across
the avenue 
like tumbleweed.
Hands on the wheel,
brain still raw from
too much wine.
At the gym 
we trudge around
the track – minds
numbed enough 
that we forget
the lap count.
This weather’s crazy
we say, just like 
yesterday, but it’s
not winter and that’s
a victory, as is 
the nearby river
with its small
waves, waiting for
a freighter miles
and miles away.



Bruce Gunther is a retired journalist and writer who lives in Michigan. He's a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, East by Northeast, Modern Haiku, the Dunes Review, and others.