Eat, Sleep, Work, Repeat

These feel like the end days

Of life. The sun, the moon,

The clouds that move, the

Train that stops at every stop

And then goes back again.

The cyclists in the queue

At the traffic lights, leading

South. How long it feels, this

March to death, this mess of

Locks and wheels and limbs

That we call civilisation. How

Vile the stench of sweating

Plastic and half-eaten sandwiches

Discarded in the wrong section

Of the bin, into general rubbish

In his tale of two cities Dickens said ‘The day came coldly, like a dead face out of the sky’

What is there to fill this grey day?

Is there someone for whom

It is not grey, is there someone

Who switches on the lights with

Every blink? Is there a place

In this grey city where life flows

Strong and people are enjoying

Their work and loving themselves

And seeing light in every eye even

Though the sun’s switched off?