Memphis wakes to a smell of hot tar,

to cracked sidewalks,

to the sweat and grime of a million tired souls,

scraping themselves off the pavement.

The wanderers,

the prayers muttered under breaths,

about this: "Let me be okay."

The tired, the worn out, the winding blues,

The neon signs,

The atmosphere heavy with exhaled wind,

From lungs that have reached capacity.

The smell of a morning that is hot, already,

The coffee in styrofoam cups,

The days that pass like beads on a rosary.

Please, let me be okay.