Propped up against the doorstep, a milky white reminder it’s the morning after.
Soaked wet through, wherever did my shoes go, what about my brogues?
Visualising a certain figure from last night.
Oi! Who are you?
Sitting there on MY doorstep daydreaming about YOUR lost loves.
Go on, clear off before you start observing The Observer getting closer to your face faster and faster, I’ll hit those daydreams straight out of ya’.
Vault the garden fence,where cold feet meet cold cement.
Tut, I really miss my shoes.
Vistas change, frames lay upon following frames,
His telephone sings, shrill and repetitive, ring ring,
He dives deep for the device, digits hover, he needs good advice,
We can see him choking, She can hear him choking.
Dropped back deep into the pocket. This call dies down.
Feet now frozen, placed steps become erratic.
Nearly home, he’s got to try,
Chills and fever, if he aint in the dry.
Sober as the sunshine, he still hits the ground.
A mirror image cracked half open, a hollow green reminder.
It’s the morning after.
T.C
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