Night poem: 180112

In a yellow memoryless room
Beneath the ghosts of underwater voices, the
Coackroach creak of my neighours
Cars come not as a river tonight, but
Stopped and hollow as screams against the window

An empty wine bottle
And a dead radio
A vase to piss in
And loose thoughts on civilisation
And of progress

Then above me, the voices fall silent
Somewhere beyond their howls lies sleep
And in the morning darkness
And in the evening there is the room again
Yellow and alone