‘7.45pm’ poem by Tree Elven

Feels like midnight on a dead day 

Guess I shouldn’t’a made that call.

Guess I shoulda just swallowed.

Guess I shoulda thoughta the right and the wrong.

Yeah, well.

The air is cool on my back,
This beer is cool to my touch.

I can see a million sordid little
tripping over

But I don’t blame the sidewalk.


Those people’s troubles are only imagined.
Colourful, poignant. A stick against my reluctant back.


All I know is it’s close on midnight,
– though my watch says a quarter of eight –
‘Cos after centuries of uneven movements,
I jerked the hands free and made that call.

Which means it’s midnight now,
And the day is technically done,
And if I peer through the workings for just a bit more
will see the rising sun.




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