He squints,
Checks the time,
Knocks cigar
Ash against a
Brick wall.
A seraglio of seriousness,
This trench-coated pose,
A shaft of grey
Supporting a dream
Turned sullen.
Whisper whisper
Scratch scratch
Scrawls across white sheets,
Is there no end to the
Worlds of words
And wars of words and
Words of words and
Words and words¦?
You don't need
The light of the Lord
To read the handwriting
On the wall in
This privy, he thought.
