Rain rattles against dark window panes.
Commuters curse as buses splash legs.
Late workers empty city centre car parks
and complain to themselves that traffic’s still bad.
The city empties for a moment, awaiting the time
when the action starts again,
at night when all is dark…
In corners, secret meets and dangerous buys;
drugs, sex, weapons – all available for a price
if you know where to go, if you know who to ask
anything is available in this night time town.
A different economy, a different world,
The nocturnal, the lost, those working by choice
at night, when all is dark…
A bell splits the night, synthetic sounds.
Scalding coffee gulped down with under-done toast,
bleary eyed bus passengers on mobile phones
take back control of the city. These streets
fill with the ambitious, the busy, the well dressed and keen.
For the next ten hours or so, the nocturnal sleep
until night, when all is dark…
(c) Chris Johnson 2016
Thanks so much to Michelle for the prompt and title for this poem.