Curtains close, It’s three.
The shop has a couple of hours life left
And the bookies wife left
Tea in the fridge.
The water – eventually, it calls all those
That live in this town. Clerks, porter-maids
The lot of them.
The desolate, the super-grannies. broken bastards
And even the simple minded.
Like an orbiting mass that swallows all that it surrounds,
It floods their heads at night, and the folks of the city role down the stony streets
To their host, the coast.
When the sun comes up – well, it’s the usual drill, isn’t it?
Bicycles clank, kettle’s are stuck on,
Basins become littered with a week’s facial hair… the lunchtime bell.
After a bit, any electricity
In the air starts to wind down
And the pubs serve up their final dessert.
The begin begins. It seems to be three again.