It’s early – or it’s late, depending on when you wake.
I think I’ll sit outside and have a cigarette,
pulling on three layers just to be out in the cold
The gentle slide of the window ends in a creak and thud once it’s at the top
(I hope I don’t wake the neighbours as it’s only three o clock)
and I’ll clamber through the portal just to be out in the cold.
The Saturday night traffic whizzes by,
trucks and taxis ferrying goods and good times,
but the drunk hours of fun in the morning aren’t worth me being in the cold
The pasty bright lights line the streets
and bring a day-lit glow to otherwise dark pursuits,
to be safe when walking home alone out in the cold
The clipper clicks and sparks the end
of a Super-King from a half empty pack,
and a quiet lip smack punctuates silent drags out in the fuming black,
struggling to reach my mouth for the shivers I have endured out in the cold.
And the calls of nightwalkers, distracted by overpriced kebabs,
And the end of a plastic cup leftover from a bar somewhere back
in the town where sleep is for the weak and fun is aplenty,
as an antidote to tiredness when you’re playing cards with a half empty pack
and my Super-King won’t come up trumps when I later check my bank
The Saturday night wheezes etch away as I finish the stub
Hinting that it might have been enjoyed better somewhere else
Like a karaoke bar or a nearby public house
So I retire from my perch,
back through the portal, the same faint creak as the window hits the bottom
and my mind sits in the gutter alone with its’ thoughts.
If one goes haywire, I’ll suffer a sleepless lurch
And I’ll endlessly envision the fate of a twisted jerk,
whose late-night rambles somehow became work.
And I’ll fear the worst tomorrow,
as in three hours’ time I take to the sleepy streets
and walk to my job out in the cold.
Tom C- Blog and Collected Works 