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…
Copyright © Daver Austin | Year Posted 2012
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