Nocturne Poem by Wild Bill Balding

As soon as we finally get to sleep
in the sweaty Parisian heat
- it seems that way, at least -
then the binmen bring their wagon
the length of our hotel's boulevard,
stop at each of the myriad bars,
let fly a flood of empty bottles
down the throat of their bottomless machine,
as before we'd sent vast bores of wine
down our own. Each sonorous sliding
crash a bottle sunk and shattered:
this for the couple on a dirty weekend,
this for the artist arranging a sale,
this for the girl being groomed for abuse,
this for the widower drinking alone,
this for the poet who can't find the words,
this for the priest who's scared to die;
these three are ours, for each of our children,
one dead, one miscarried, one never to be,
as the crashes, their cries and the growl of the van
broadcast, bombard with sad lullabies.