I'll peek

Step on, find a seat, five days of the week. 

Small garage, slanted door, it’s cold, rose cheek. 

I peer out the polycarbonate window where you stick. 

You work behind a coffee shop, yet your action’s not quick. 

You are petting a dog; his coat looks sleek. 

New day, scene change, your floorboards crack, creek. 

You are writing in the notebook, what sweater did you pick? 

Am I the only one who glances at you while carsick? 

Then the roll-up is closed, the bus feels bleak.  

I know you’ll be back; we’ll start a new streak. 

I hope you are warm, maybe there's a glowing candlestick. 

Perhaps you’ll be unwinding and chewing on a toothpick. 

If it rains one day, rooftop has a leak,  

I’ll be on my conveyance, and I’ll peek.