All Saints Valentine

You can hear the microwaves
go off in the kitchens of heaven
if you were to walk down the alleyways
in the morning or sit out in the garden
and the leaf-blower down the street
and cars being beeped and driven off
even the smells wake up and walk
something sweet and acrid then
something earthy and caffeinated
little scent clouds that drift
dissolving and reconstituting
themselves and you can sit
hidden in the shade all day
and do that thing writers do
poking with a stick
at innocent paper