Anthem at midnight


A synthesizer moaned of
vicious isolation and they
were stranded like limpets
after the tide deserted them.

The tide was built from thick,
wavy shag, a joy to toes
seldom spread but rooted.


Salt and pepper static
made dingy walls glisten;
angels seldom visit idle industry.


Minutes wavered to and fro,
formerly proud flags
commiserating about loss of
country or pride,
whatever the semantics.


A stale, cold smell of
morning burned its way
through orange dawn-
a poor herald of beginnings.

The dawn was absolute,
fixed, a menacing squeezed
in fisted sheets.

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