In the street light
an older man
eats a steak pie
from some paper.
His hair is combed back
carefully and his eyes
suggest another time.
Above him the light
shines through
a domestic tree
whose branches spiral
through the beaming.
Gleaming water drops
caught in this matrix
complete the picture.
The man’s foot taps
out a rhythm to a
now forgotten song.
A song that demands I
never waste a morning.
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