Nightwatch of sorts

Sometimes in sleet of late Sunday nights
When empty cafes bookshops pubs stare back
Lazily at a wandering restless boy
Errant cold beads slide down darkened window panes
When he sits in ragged leather chair
And even radio deserts him in pointless Sunday observance
Does there exist sad pondering ponderous boy
A nightwatch of sorts
Former far-gone everything, most-
Comets streaking by slowly inching above cloud-cover sullen sky
It must be brilliant there
Parallel here what is a closer there
Not far away through all-too-physical soaked falling distance
Through remembered things best perhaps forgotten
Through paper-piles and coffee-cups metaphorical
Otherwise, and
The nights slip-sliding away
Past forlorn reflections in time-warp diner windows
Which nothing and every little thing will bring back real
Does he keep a watch this night
Of sorts as yet remembered

J. Horne