Late

Strands of pink try
to cool the view
but the 'planes buzz
like bees or wasps, angry, riled, cross,
and the traffic sweeps the kerb
in a driven fashion -
all going home for tea.

And as the sky descends,
white lights are switched-on by an 
invisible hand
and here I sit, waiting
for your next unplanned
move, my knuckles whiten
on the desk and eyes
watch the clock chalk-up its
numbers.  I add and subtract
bus timetable figures
and hope you cross the hall
each time the far door squeaks.

These 'planes give us no peace,
no quiet-thought-process
and I watch the buses scrape the
mini-roundabout
and wait.

Darkness rises.
It is getting late.

previous poem