Light flares off the rim
of a Carlsberg Export can,
as fag smoke curdles the air
the routine tapping of ash
drowns out the clock...almost.
Somewhere life goes on
but never here, always elsewhere;
in between breaths the only sound
is a second thought, doubt, worry
that the black dog waits in the dark.
The mirror doesn't reflect a man;
but a hollow, taped-up, broken thing
that dreams of no longer dreaming
of only making a contribution
by simply not being there.
Outside the trees trade secrets
and streetlights dabble in gossip,
always afraid of being alone
or worse of feeling nothing at all.
For what good is life, if you're not living?