A puff of cigar in, mist, out
on the street, shrouding the
tracks and missed heart aches;
this morning, time,
is not kept by the ticking clock.
Only one vehicle has crossed the road.
Mellow sun warming up the snow
forever burying the tracks out;
The stubble's scruffy, and heart,
as dishevelled as the sheets;
Empty cups, full of memories -
and stained of the night's wine;
In the corners the embers still crackle:
leaning back on ease chair,
wondering
who it was that left early
this misty morning;
Classic noir: served with morning coffee.
.
