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.
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