By Goodge Street

I’m awake in the sleep of an early end

with a cup at my fingers,

and the rhythm of Latin rocking my thumbs.


Beyond, the voice of an office discharged,

snaking and tripping across the road

and into the cafe, limp and unwound.


Now slumped into corners and reading at tables,

the bitter, warm smell of roast and the hiss of the coffee machine

diffuse in the damp, stormy air;

and an amber light rising everywhere in the heavy dusk.