Service Corridor at Dawn

At 5 a.m. the subway sleeps with one eye open, fluorescent rain hums along the tiled ribs, a mop wrings out last night's confetti of footprints, and steam lifts like pale horses from a grate.

A baker unlocks morning with a ring of keys, yeast breath spills warm into the iron air, newspapers thud like soft verdicts at each door, and pigeons stitch gray commas across the tracks of light.

Somewhere above, office towers clear their throats, elevators begin their silver climbing hymn, traffic wakes in cautious scales, then brass, while river fog braids itself through bridgework.

By sunrise the city wears its machinery like jewelry, bolts and windows flashing in the same pulse, and everyone stepping out carries a small ignition, a private spark fed by the dark they crossed.