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3 am
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Hyacinth garden 3 am.
Nights deserted for the first time in a long time.
Over the seawall, the fishes swim about in
search of a fishbowl.
Nowadays, kids all grown.
The Ex is long gone out on her own.
A shot of Irish whiskey in your hand,
While the blue sea shackles the land with spasm.
You think to yourself.
As your headaches pounding like the waves at the shore not a soul in sight.
Like years spent charming luxury your mind wanders to the weather.
Will it turn hotter by the end of the week, or will the deluge of rains make the rising creek flood the basement again.
'Over the seawall, the fishes swim about in a
search of a fishbowl.'
nice one!
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