Wee Small Hours
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame a
sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji, raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off,
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick, setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb, scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.
Copyright © Howard Kerr | Year Posted 2020
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