october 1962

october 1962, 

and the nights are drawing in;

vinegar steams, and the chip shop licks

a boy’s fears, wounded of the day.

it is dark outside in the noose of night;

inside the chippy, the chrome shines 

and the hot pie glass gazes back.

floating in the gravitas, piles of pies 

are squared to give the arena 

its mezzanine floor, that clicks to the heels

of the "tweet now?" birds with their 

teddy-boy beaus, soon to be

embracing the dark night, 

kissing under the street light penumbra,

where the youngsters pine in the orange shadow.

smarting, the day is licked, time is battered,

the moon’s wine has clouded vision.

the bed covers that wait will say nothing 

about the wet dreams, and the rain that

runs in tears, that roll down the runnels 

of tonight, until tomorrow rewinds the clock, 
and sets love’s timer running once again.