Shift’s End

At 5am the wheels aren’t turning,

Cogs are slowly creaking underneath.

Mannequins masquerade as lurkers,

As bin men smoke smoke smoke smoke in the streets.

While homeless rouse from a rowdy hell unslept,

Worn bar workers stagger home, drunk on not drunk,

On sticky, swollen, shoeless feet.

Scarf tucked tight against the cold, naked legs freeze.

Pockets jangle marching tunes for the last push home,

Or offer up a visit to the taxi queue,

As a lonely glow on the horizon proffers food

With a side order of drunks.

Traffic lights changed on unruptured cycles

Unbothered by no-one there to stop and see.

The town hall clock chimes the final round til light,

While keys are turned and beds are reunited.

And everywhere tucked up in houses,

People rise with the sun they’re paid to meet.

 

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