Above the city, low grey clouds
promise another short, dark day
which no one will remember. Crowds
go down into the Underground
to pop up postal codes away
like items from the Lost and Found.
I should have slept another hour
when they’d be tucked behind their screens
consoled by work’s false sense of power.
I’d wake, and peep at empty streets
and wonder what the morning means
by stopping when my heart still beats.
O City, tell me where the past
is hiding in your A to Z,
so that I might track down at last
the reason for your parlous state.
Until you do, I’m back to bed:
please tell the crusty world to wait.
First published in HQ Poetry Magazine number 46, April 2016