5.05 am (A red-and-yellow bus)

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Katarzyna Krzewińska

A red-and-yellow bus
hurtles down Marszałkowska Street
past dirty grey house façades.
Magda would do with more sleep.

Perhaps a little Red Bull
can give her a morning kick,
a brighter look and faster pulse –
chase the night’s shadow off her face.

The street is nearly empty,
conveniently, at five past five.
Has she ever felt like
turning left into Jerozolimskie Ave.,
then across Poniatowski Bridge
to where the beach awaits her
and the bus would look like an oversized dog?
It could be a great thing to do
but she must carry on.

She heads straight on, then,
passing Centrum stores on her right.
She’d started her day long ago,
though the sun is still not up.

The early morning bus
hurtles down Marszałkowska Street
with just two passengers inside.
Magda still badly needs some sleep.

Perhaps a little Red Bull
can give her a morning kick,
brighter look and a faster pulse –
chase the night’s shadow off her face.

5.05 am (It’s weird, a bit like shame)

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Artur Zagajewski

It’s weird, a bit like shame
or I dunno what.
That other one must be going to work
while I’m heading back home.

An empty bus at five past five,
passing the H&M store.
She’s heading for work, I’m going back
to get some uneasy sleep.

The night shift, the morning shift.
I’m rather drunk, but not that drunk.

I’m gonna skip classes today,
Won’t make it for two o’clock.
So strange to be coming back
when all the lights are off at home.

That blond guy was even nice
but one day he was gone.
It’s the Saxon Garden we’re passing
and soon it will be dawn.

The night shift, the morning shift.
I’m rather drunk, but not that drunk.

The one who’s going to work
is ten years older than me, or less.
It’d be less embarrassing
if someone else got on this bus.

The morning bus and class struggle:
the working class, the owning class.
Just before I left, I had Long Island iced tea.
It wasn’t really a good idea.
Bankowy Square, as grey as ever,
I guess it’ll soon be dawn.

The night shift, the morning shift.
I’m rather drunk, but not that drunk.

5.05 am (Marszałkowska in the bus window)

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Anna Ignatowicz-Glińska

Marszałkowska in the bus window
and the grey Palace of Culture on the left
like a cadaver’s tooth.
I was still asleep just an hour ago.

Why such thoughts today?
I’m going to be late,
Iwona will tell me off.
Go fuck yourself, Iwona.

A dark morning, the morning dark,
a roundabout, another stop,
the bed’s back home, and I am here
fighting off the sleep residue.

Two minutes late!
With Iwona there’s no fucking around.
Five types of buns
with bangers on a sausage warmer.

All this soon to come,
But now this bus
and some guy peeing
on the corner of Złota Street.

We leave him behind
and the post office on the left.
That girl in the front –
about five years younger than me.

A dark morning, the morning dark,
a roundabout, another stop,
the bed’s back home, and I am here
fighting off the sleep residue.

She must have had some drinks,
her eyes betray fatigue.
I feel like a drink too
as soon as I see Iwona.

In every shop, the boss
is the worst bitch of them all.
I’ll get some Ibuprofen off the shelf.
I have a headache again.

A dark morning, the morning dark,
a roundabout, another stop,
the bed’s back home, and I am here
fighting off the sleep residue.

5:30 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Monika Szpyrka

Five thirty and I can’t sleep.
It’ll be dawning soon.
Took a melatonin softgel cap.
Thoughts tumble one another like dominoes:
my job
my deadline
my poor lonely mother
whom I never call
and the softgell doesn’t work,
the quilt feels hot.
I turn it all over
but to no avail.
A tram has rattled on the rails,
It’s six now.

The alarm will ring in two hours,
I haven’t slept since four.

5:40 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Paweł Malinowski

A falcon takes off from its nest
At the base of the palace spire
and the sun will soon be up.
It started early today.

The tawny owl hurries back
to get to its nest before dawn.
She needs to hunt a lot
to feed her young in the hollow.

Weary after a whole night’s hunt
she spots a salon with costly clothes
and very expensive mascots.
Next come two Żabka chain shops
and Stokrotka, all with green logos.

The falcon flies above the board:
‘Shop closing sale’ – but birds
cannot read letters, nor guess,
besides, he’s much too high.
Down there, a dog walks with a man.
It smelled the bird and barked
albeit half-heartedly
and the owl is all weary
after the hard night’s hunt.

Dark and grey, down below,
An empty school lies in silence.
The owl now spots the falcon
soaring up, far to her left.

They take their shifts as usual
up in the sky, which now turns
reddish pink though still cold.

6:04 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Katarzyna Dziewiątkowska

If he smiles at six
that means he won’t sleep anymore.
I was really hoping
he’d wake up rather later,
do the wakey-wakey at seven;
well, I was wrong.

It’s a bit scary he won’t sleep any longer.
Oh, but that smile!

He’s trying hard to crawl off the changing table
as I am struggling to put him in his baby clothes.
I give him a duster to wave about.
This does the trick. Look, little tadpole,
we must get your arms into these sleeves.
I know you are so curious of the world around
but give me a moment, please
till this onesie is buttoned up…
well, I can see that you won’t.

It’s a bit scary he won’t sleep any longer.
Oh, but that smile!

He is so warm and small.
The cats have all run into hiding
since he crawls after them and laughs.
I was really hoping to sleep a bit longer.
Well, not today.

It’s a bit scary he won’t sleep any longer.
Oh, but that smile!

6:20 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Jerzy Kornowicz

Elbi drives some guy to the airport,
taking his Uber down Świętokrzyska Street
and into Wisłostrada, or so the GPS directs him.
Is this really the best route? No one can say for sure.
He follows it anyway, must get to Żwirki somehow.
Half the Palace of Culture in the rear-view mirror,
the city’s empty at six, so it’s easy to get through.
He thinks of what Adamek said about Mamed;
half a minute and he’d throw in the towel,
if it was MMA. Elbi looks in the mirror.
He’s put on some weight. Must start training again,
but when? In Poland he has little time
and few friends. Żwirki’ss ahead of them,
the linden alley, and the new Beyonce
song’s broadcast on the radio. Elbi knows the lyrics:

This ain't Texas (woo), ain't no hold 'em (hey)

He croons it quietly, so as not to disturb
his passenger on the back seat, probably heading for Thailand,
a holiday on the beach. Elbi will get one, too,
as soon as he has the dosh.
He will lie on the beach, soon enough, but not now.
One day he will, for sure, if he works hard enough.
The new Beyonce on the radio. Elbi knows the lyrics:

This ain't Texas (woo), ain't no hold 'em (hey)

6:40 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Rafał Zapała

Marek’s peeling asparagus, quick,
the chef will sure pick on him;
it needs to be peeled nice.
Little time left, it’s almost seven.
Breakfast must be served from eight on.
The chef stands over him and urges him.
He’s a genius and a true enthusiast,
which makes him stern. He can sure appear
on Hell's Kitchen one day. He starts yelling at Mark.

Should he make him lick the sink all clean,
what can he say to this? ‘right-ho, chef, sir!’

Peel it all, then freeze the sauce
with liquefied nitrogen, quick.
Must be done right, or he’ll yell again.
His diner is spesh, molecular, fine dining,
may well get a star from Michelin –
how great to dream the boss’s dream.

Should he make him lick the sink all clean,
what can he say to this? ‘right-ho, chef, sir!’

When Marek was all green, he’d say ‘Mishelin’
and everybody laughed. Now he’s no longer green,
he knows it’s ‘Mishlen’ and not ‘Mishelin’ –
how great to dream the boss’s dream.

Asparagus may turn sour, he’s not peeled it right.
The chef is yelling again, he is scolding Mark.

Should he make you lick the sink all clean,
what can you say to this? ‘right-ho, chef, sir!’
When Moses saw the burning bush,
That’s what he said: ‘right-ho, chef, sir!’
right-ho, chef!
right-ho, chef!
right-ho, chef!

7:20 am

words by Grzegorz Uzdański
music by Anna Sowa

It’s seven thirty, the alarm goes off,
The dream drifts slowly off, such a silly dream.
I reset the alarm for ten minutes from now.
At seven forty, the same tune again,
a Mozart sonata, jingle of the week,
a bit too sweet perhaps. I will pick another.
My grandad – he bred goats, pigs, and cows –
had to get up much earlier. I’ll be up in a minute.
Ah, the deadline! It passed yesterday.
Not good, but the report proved too hard.
I’ll be up right away. The start is always hardest.

It’s hardest to start
and it’s so hard
to recall
the dream.

I’m up now but feeling dizzy.
Now I know what the dream was. I was sitting up late.
A thief came in the night and removed the door lock –
‘twas made of butter. He’s entered the room.
Can’t see he face. I’m taking a shower.
The water’s too hot, ouch! OK, now it feels better.
He’s standing there, and then starts coming closer –
so very, very slowly – that’s the scary bit.
I’m watching him and feeling that I’m gonna scream.
The liquid soap is a brand-new series,
with mango flavour and the scent of energy…
Auto-suggestion? It might work this way.
He’s really close. I clutch the chair:
Don’t come near me, or I’ll throw it at you!
He disappears. I’ve won! He is gone,
only he left me a gift on the floor.
It was no thief, just a postman. They now work at night.
I look in the mirror. My hair is too long,
Must have it cut. What was in the parcel?
Can’t remember. Felt it was important
or else it wasn’t. It is now past eight.
Breakfast. Quick. I’m gonna be late.
I’m always late. This is bad enough.
I’m gonna change my ways, honestly, tomorrow.
What was in that parcel? The sun shines through the window.
It feels nice, must admit. What was it? Oh, never mind.

It’s hardest to start
and it’s so hard
to recall
the dream.