tip and tilt to the sun

tip and tilt to the sun

we are a nation

of slanted, fat-eyed drunkards,

rocking time

on the night bus;

our grandiose Friday dreams,

lost like small change.

in the morning, none of us

will have changed anything.

still the sharp stiletto stab

of loneliness, unique to

waking alone.

memories,

strung across our livers

like washing left out in winter rain.

we are, a nation of saturated,

aimless hopes;

like ships wedged inside bottles,

we tip and tilt to the sun

once in a while,

for a moment;

before sinking without a trace.