A curtain slightly moves <br />as a well-after-midnight breeze <br />blows cold kisses at a guttering candle. <br />Silver knives and forks <br />now lie on empty, stained plates <br />as hosts and guests <br />sip brandy from bulbous glasses. <br /> <br />Simultaneous yawns, put pay <br />to a continuation of merriment <br />as guest struggle into warm coats. <br />Outside on the wet, shiny streets, <br />we drive into daybreak, passing <br />the street-cleaning lorry <br />and a rattling milk float. <br />In sleeping houses as we pass... <br /> <br />no curtains slightly move.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-tired-observation/
