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.