by Mark William Jackson
It’s the cool blue,
the breeze,
the cruel air that
cuts your teeth
and fakes the scene.
It’s too early for breakfast,
too late for a drink,
nought to do
but scratch alone
and listen for echoes in the alleyways.
It’s four in the morning,
the night has taken its penance
and you are left,
in your head,
in the dying hours,
shuffled from memories
like an unwanted card.