it’s two in the afternoon.
the soundtrack to the eighties
whistles through the quiet pub,
lunch time leftovers
shine greasily on cheap porcelain plates.
a window seat,
a mother and baby –
one’s asleep, the other gazes at passing cars
without seeing them.
food arrived an hour ago,
but the warmth of the public house
with its weary decorations
and pound-shop snowflake stickers
is a toasty comfort
along the bleak horizon
of a cold and silent home,
where the only sound is the sound of yourself.