Late Morning


The steam from my coffee mug forms condensation shrouds.
Beyond the glass I watch the sagging duvet of the clouds
Propped up above the broken roofs on stilts of chimney smoke,
Like some drab surreal painting by that famous Dali bloke.
I am running now on empty. I have been for several weeks.
The weather doesn’t help much. Or the fact my cistern leaks.
Like some horror movie painting where the watching villain hides,
I draw eyeballs in the steamed-up pane and take a look outside.
The reflection of the post-girl smears the pavement abstract grey,
The tungsten of her jacket juxtaposing with the day.
This smoky town has lost its soul. It’s raining now out front.
Draw the curtains and withdraw, Hughes, and return to Bargain Hunt.

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