The morning after a day so torrid
that it cooked the socks and stockings right off
a marathon of administrative feet –
that morning is a frigid morning,
a continuous April in London dawn,
masquerading as one long apocalyptic dusk,
where people who quietly covet more sleep
resent so deeply their puffy faces,
where the little red dome of a dusty alarm bell
mounted high on a factory wall
seems softer, and all the objects that we usually ignore
pine to be noticed - like the lovesick tattoo
peeking from the collar of a fellow worker,
or the far-fallen but ever-chipper leaf
that catches itself
in the drinking fountain's trough.
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