yellow and white
lights
of the marquee
are done. The
money's made.
Nothing but black-
ness, and a persistent
wind
entering my sleeping
bag as I try to
catch
a couple more hours
of sleep
before
sunrise and the
sudden return
of
people rushing past
me and the
averted eyes
of The City:
more partial to
celluloid tragedies
and a smart cafe after
than a poor old man
sleeping at their feet.
Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell
No comments:
Post a Comment
Don't be shy...