The window reflects
the bed, the book, the door.
Outside, there's nothing.
It's the hour between
the end and the beginning.
In the city square
the name-scabbed seats are empty.
Street lights make shadows
marked with taggers’ leavings.
Somewhere else, the busker sleeps,
his cracked guitar case propped against a kitchen chair,
the instrument untuned, missing a string.
The rubbish men twitch, dreaming of the heavy swing of the bins.
the machine breathing in puffs beside you,
plastic lines crossing your pure profile, your chest, your arms.
You're wearing your new pyjamas, cream and pink,
sanguine against the pallid blanket.
The rise and fall of the orange line
belie the effigy-drape of the sheets across your legs.
Now I wait until daylight, and hope
I'll take you home.