Deadened rain, etc;
it’s aloneness a warehouse

of undelivered grief
‘If the boss was here…’’

I take photographs
of stained polystyrene coffee cups,

three red-rigid seats against
a still life of fire extinguishers,

sky tangled with window and
wind-turbines, twisting

air into wet grey light. Should
I weep? Not until the gods

of such places are mutilated.
Awash, somewhere, is a sea.