A tired morning
keeps the curtains
drawn on the
sun’s jaundiced face
so she doesn’t
have to look
down on
this hung over town
that cannot help
but remember
another
drunken night
trailing
scattered chips
and kebap meat
fought over by seagulls
-although the sea
is miles away-
and I think
it best to
draw my
curtains
on morning
and his brother day
let TV be my window
to today
an interlocutor
I can mute
just as I please
lean back
and dream of
other people’s lives