Nightscapes Pt 2

Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters, merchants come to raise their shutters, regard the fading moon, and mutter, 'yet another day.' Begone, O Bride of Midnight! favour us with not another glance, put your spells away, you'll not lead us in our daily dance. Behold a wrinkled substitute, a crone who likes to think that she's a queen; with as much grace as she can muster, she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room, feathered and be-furbelowed and plays with her decolletage, she's mutton dressed as lamb. The smell of stale tobacco and a whiff of old perfume, no longer with her entourage she dances out of rhythm to the tango, rusty and unconstituted, wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb. At twenty past I'm home at last, the brass plate spells my name; come inside! familiar and gratifying, slippers by my bed still lying, dressing gown and cap are crying, here abide! The sheets are turned and ready. I leave the night and take a final bow, grateful for the here and now.