Hollow midnight, and cacophonies of neon
pulse on the empty air.
A blind tram, the last,
gropes its railed way home.

In a doorway ahead of me
a dark shape staggers.
Alternative involvement?
Maybe the right idea.
I skirt him with respect...
he skirts me too, sidesteps
in perfect unison.
The rictus in the plate glass
gleams mirthless by sodium glare.

A shiver, then, in the warm breeze,
a hurrying on,
and a brief paean to sweet impermanence.
Thank heaven nothing lasts:
the glasswalled showrooms,
the chrome and Scandinavian pine,
the smug bank monoliths,
my own echoing steps,
the dwindled tram,
even this night’s cloud-covered stars —
all tick their finite course away.