The dishevelled hour of 1800


When the veneer of propriety barely hangs for most and some not at all
and eyes avoid eyes in the abysmal desolation as the last fragments of light filter through the trees
We are all simply passing through this resented place
simply teetering on the precipice of bad conversation
“where did you come from?”
“where are you going?”
and you–enshrouded in a mellifluous saxophone solo or something
dreaming distantly
Do you need to break
over the phone
in an email
in a letter
a long harboured confession
simply languishing in the hour?