Four in the morning talking
Four in the morning is a lost dog,
wandering down paths that used to lead to home
but now go nowhere.
Four am is a bed as cold as a failed marriage;
the February of the day
before the first birds or shards of light
discover the edge of the blind.
Four in the morning is the only house in the road;
is a passer-by with a voice like a dustcart,
yelling at a mobile phone;
the guest come far too early to be welcome.
Four am is neither day nor night, light nor dark,
neither fully awake nor asleep;
where problems grow like a cuckoo chick
in the nest of your mind.
The party is long since over, but four in the morning
still waits on the wet curb of the day
for the taxi that never comes,
the sleep that never comes, the slow tick tock till light.