Dirge

The minutes are falling now, the hours are falling.
On the way home breadwinners barter the worn phrases
that shield them like off-the-peg suits or overalls,
drain half-a-pint of bitter and have one more.

The curtains are drawn now, the suppers are over.
Light snow spatters the windscreens in the streets
and drips through old bus tickets and cigarette ends
into the gutters in the dark.
...