The old man whistles absently,

As he closes up his shop,

At five o’clock,

And enters the darkening street,

Heading home to

The comforting constant of the ticking clock,

The flickering shadows in soft orange firelight,

The occasional crackle and spark reminding him

That time is alive,

Even at rest.

All gone


A distant electronic hum, like tinnitus,

The glare of too-white light dissolving shadows,

Like over-exposed celluloid, desperate

To convince us that everything is always the same,

That night is unnecessary

And that consumption is holier than rest.


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