THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

3 a.m. The striplight winks
a saucy eye at the chef turning hot dogs
on the hot plate. He shuffles onions
with a spatula. It's just me
and two other guys drifted in
from drinking. A television in the corner tells
in hushed voices, gunfights overseas.
The world never sleeps. Coffee. Teeth
filled with grease and ketchup,
bread and onions spilling down his chin.
He is three sheets. From here streets
take a taxi over the river
Flights are rising out of the water 
coming down.
A lump of mucky sugar plops. A barge horn
blows the door ajar. A bell rings.
The lads are getting bolshy with each other.
I fix my face
in a teaspoon the wrong way round.
Nothing doing. The lads leave off.
It's just me and the chef. He is frying eggs.

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

I was talking about suicides and governments

and cities in foreign countries and listening

to Bruce Springsteen on vinyl. I was thinking

 

I'd been smoking for two weeks straight

and that was my run. There was nothing on the road

that night. Nothing on the other side.

I was worried for my friend

who was caught up in a friend 

they were worried about. There were no motorbikes.

The road was closed. The bins 

had not been emptied and my nephew was learning 

to stand. Some people were walking their dogs.

High police presence. Cat shit in the gravel.

A pile of books. Empty bottles. It happens.