It’s moments like this
when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone
a radio whispering
somewhere amongst the glasses
- I’m through with love -
the way the traffic slows
to nothing
how all of a sudden
at three in the afternoon
the evening’s already begun
a nascent
dimming.
By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain
and everyone who passes
will be you
or almost you
before it’s someone else.
John Burnside
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blues-11/
