The waking Sun says one more hour to go
of eight spent navigating through a night
Of safely steering bleary human flow
until the party people pass from sight
The rising star lights last night’s carton footprint –
early birds inspect abandoned chips
And breeze blows bottle mouths to moan like woodwind –
percussion from an unstuck gutter’s drips
The sober souls now slipping through the station,
risen from the bed that I am grieving
Stubble, make-up covers daybreak skin
on lovers kissing quick, the boss is waiting
Lovers part to go to where I’m leaving –
my shift’s over, theirs will soon begin
