In the West End
stilletos running on cement
are all it can take
to crack my
dreams,
mistake
talking heads on TV
for lovers'
midnight scenes
backstage
the other side
of the wall.
A Harley's engine
first trumpet
keeps score
sirens
count raindrops
recite folklore
the clock radio grows
a neon mind of its own,
spoons with worry
packaged tightly
to fit inside quiet
at half past four.
Waiting for sleep
when you can't
freezes time.
2 comments:
a very vivid poem - thanks.
Much appreciated.
Thank you Ben.
It almost makes not being able to sleep, worth it. The poem that is.
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