It’s moments like this
        when the barman goes through the back
and leaves me alone

a radio whispering
        somewhere amongst the  glasses
               - I’m through with love -

the way the traffic slows
     to nothing
how all of a sudden
     at three in the afternoon

the evening’s already begun
     a nascent
dimming.

     By ten I’ll be walking away
on Union Street
     or crossing Commercial Road
in a gust of rain

and everyone who passes
     will be you
or almost you
     before it’s someone else.