Margen
At four oh seven the M-30 street cleaners wear reflective vests and speak in low voices, though there is no one to wake.
One jet falls on the empty asphalt, the other on the central reservation. The city has not arrived yet.
When you go out tomorrow with your phone under your arm and cross the blue crossing that was just washed, someone got up at three to leave it like that for you.
You don't know his name. He doesn't know yours. Both of us were paid for the same thing: being awake.