A Late Visitor

A LATE VISITOR Sleepless, he’d taken seat In an overstuffed chair Lamp not lit, nor diversion sought, Just sitting there Worrying on about problems of day Listening for answers night wouldn’t say II I hear wheels of a horse drawn coach In London Town fog “Bring it round, you merry coachman Bring it round!” Off the avenue where I stand Hat in clouds, shoes on the ground The in between a fright and swimming round Hear? between those dock, dock sounds My shouting voice? “Bring it round, you cocksure coachman Bring it round!” III All’s quiet Snow, I’m sure, will drift to ten feet Outside the window – or more Old downy dog’s acurl in a corner When I’m off he’ll choose the rocker The feeling’s like one preceding A mystic midnight meeting Of spider and fly Or mice in a breadbox, eating All’s quiet all’s well And the old clock’s ticking…ticking… ticking…