Counting down

The street’s defining sounds:

Motor scooters’ sports exhausts,

They sing flat, like me;

The ring of empty barrels,

I know it’s the Mahou truck,

No need to look;

The clip of heels marchando,

Heading off to work;

Smash of glass and plastic,

Carrion dragged from a skip;

Sirens;

Impatient horns;

A helicopter.

Morning breeze fills the nets,

Relief from the stifling night.

A sense of leaving builds

And I know that I’m awake.