The Truth About Tigers

There’s an underrated tranquility
in the carbon-black predawn,
when most of the community
is still securely wedged in their beds.
The streets are near empty,
traffic light, if even existent,
coffee shops just opening,
void of the usual lines.

A barely-felt background static,
a crush of humanity simmering just below
the cool early morning air
concealing the day’s imminent eruption —
a snarl of horns, brake lights,
a frantic rush to jobs and schools,
an explosion of activity soon to arrive.

But for now, the streets are quiet
as I sip black coffee in the driver’s seat,
windows down, NPR playing softly.
The broadcasts, sometimes disjointed,
vault from story to story,
harsh leaps and soft landings on divergent topics.

The voices underlie the nature of the stories,
convincing the lizard part of the brain
that all must be well.
The cadence is low and soft,
strange yet standard for public radio,
a steady hand in a turbulent world,
trained to deliver tragedy and heartbreak
with a calm that stills the soul.

“We’re all fucked, the world is ending,
but everything is okay,” they seem to say,
and then, seamlessly,
on to a story about a one-legged Ethiopian triathlete
who nearly made it to the Olympics.