Lurking in a sullen snug
hiding away from eyes of the good
except the occasional ones
of a waitress who acknowledges
his order
with a nod
a momentarily glimmer of light
from neon reflecting sparks of life
between exchanges of glasses,
empty for full.
The change lands on the table  
dull as a labour's boots.
Sometimes here he writes
of worlds too fine for spoken words.
In the wakefulness of day
they are crumpled, discarded, shredded and burned.
Who'll listening if he could,
but speak as he wrote?
But there's nought.