August Night
An August Night
rain scuttling the roof like a rodent,
the stream of car hiss
seeping out of the darkness.
The shorter hand of the clock
seems impatient today, as if this waiting,
this holding on -
of the boy who drank coffee
from a baby's bottle
until he was five -
has glued me to oblivion.
I seek solace in poetry.
10th August 1999 3.25 am