The vitality of Piccadilly slowly ebbs away until it gets quiet at about three A.M.,
A human figure becomes enigmatic and provokes an interest when it’s empty of them,
Hoardings in the center of the road are now dark and dingy look like an ugly scar,
Then there is is a noise a beam that washes the Circus it's the lights from a car,
Piccadilly at three A. M. looks much like a big empty theater after the final show,
The cast have gone their separate ways and the audience too all had somewhere to go,
Bottles tinkle in the dark the noise of flapping paper it’s all part of the night,
Talking and footsteps from afar then a loud cough, laughs from revelers out of sight.
On the corner is a pillar-box standing guard, tramcar rods flash as they rumble by,
Big Ben four gold faces shine the four points of the compass, in the darkened sky,
Soon alarm clocks will ringing all over the city getting people out of their beds,
London at night, in the pitch dark, is the same as anywhere a wise man once said.
Categories:
tramcar, history, dark, dark,
Form: Prose Poetry