A Quarter to 7
It’s a quarter to 7 and the draught runs cold,
I store my day on legal sheets,
Bide my time and count the words,
And count them with no small measure of contempt,
For they are not life and I am not dead,
Though minutes pass me by without a hitch
When daylight slithers under doors and onto wicks,
I store away my legal sheets,
And walk out the café between corner streets,
To dirty my lungs with city air,
And in a short while sit with a cheap Port
In a seedy bar known as Last Resort.