What
is there for me when the morning comes?
A kitten scrabbling cold gnawed rabbit
bones
among the tinkling cinders of a hearth,
desolate wisdom got avoiding
the known good,
a tramcar moaning down an empty street,
a memory that
fingers old regrets.
Few thoughts. No purpose. A remote hope,
for when
these couples find they cannot sleep
a girl I know will yawn and rub her eyes,
untwist her soft hair from her lover's beard
and dress herself, and rise
perhaps to wash her face and brew some tea,
perhaps to talk with me. |