A Tired Observation Poem by Ian Bowen

A curtain slightly moves
as a well-after-midnight breeze
blows cold kisses at a guttering candle.
Silver knives and forks
now lie on empty, stained plates
as hosts and guests
sip brandy from bulbous glasses.

Simultaneous yawns, put pay
to a continuation of merriment
as guest struggle into warm coats.
Outside on the wet, shiny streets,
we drive into daybreak, passing
the street-cleaning lorry
and a rattling milk float.
In sleeping houses as we pass...

no curtains slightly move.