Rain for breakfast
Rain, like bacon, cooking in the dark.
Its lean, glass medallions griddling
against the black plate of my window;
desk lamp frying the fat spots to stars.
Dotted street lights are random smokers,
chaining through the power cut of night.
And every now and then, the eyes
of cars: headlights, flashing like a cat’s.
Five minutes and we go to midnight –
dissolve, leave sleep to edit the hours.
We cut to the fat-white rind of dawn.
To sounds of bacon. Rain for breakfast.