The Dinner Was Real Good Poem by Sibghatullah Khan

He works down to the violet hours
of the typist girl: It is all creative.
He has his car and doesn't wait
like a taxi throbbing waiting.
And since he signed that contract,
he doesn't grope his way up in the dark.
He changes and his dinner is served in silence;
he looks at his watch, and eats without a word.
Lights are out after his ritual walk:
his practiced hands encounter no defence,
and he makes a welcome of indifference.
He turns over with a perfect time,
strikes a match for a smoke and says:
'The dinner was real good.'