It is night.
And we have built patterns in local taverns.
Maps of the mind bifurcate as the dawn breaks.
We swim lazily amongst the cars and muted TVs.
I rub the shoulders of friends and giants,
Who pay a visit in my dreams,
And try to write this painful rhyme in a corner,
While children of yet another uncle fight and squabble.
He looks at me struggling,
My birthday is spoilt,
And nobody remembered to telephone for pizza …
"But I purposely got here early on the bus," I say,
Pressing the button three times,
"And the driver got really annoyed!"
