Another Day Poem by Howard Pipe

He slips through the shadows, early morning rises slowly.
Feels its naked breath
as the day splutters into life.
Shivers, alone,
the outside air is cold once more.
Leaves behind his pretty home, its sleepy warmth,
its comfort, its boiling kettle,
the matching curtains; they twitch mercilessly.

He lengthens his stride
and dodges the wheelie bins left behind,
as is the scaffolding at number nine.
Walks down Woking Avenue,
its plane trees, its parked cars;
he extricates himself from his phone.
The underground station
comes into view.

Beneath the tower block, a well groomed man,
with suit and tie,
takes his lunch from a briefcase,
as office workers enjoy the watery sun.
Back home late,
the deceit goes on.
Redundancy
has not been easy.