After Twelve

After twelve, In forgotten corners of quiet streets Beneath the burning lamps of winter's night, Beside a vendor's battered cart— Ash and dust gather by the roadside; Swept away by morning, Returning by the night. Dark window-panes fill a row, Where one or two remain awake. Yellow beams flood the road As shadows drift in headlights' chase. A weather-beaten man listens to The hushed voices near the tea stall Lingering among the weary hands Of workers staying late; One walked up the street, Up the stairs and up to his room, So did the second and third, until The hall fell asleep in the gloom. After twelve, The lake shimmered in afternoon's heat, Scorching the worn wooden seats Where one sat watching the raft of ducks, Yearning to earn enough; hunger still pleaded. One sat feasting on roasted meat, Yet tears descended from his eyes At the sight of two hands Clasped so tight. Another walked in his sweat-soaked dress, With stiff collar choking his drooping neck, And handful of luggage, a burden on his chest, Drowning inside his own heat, Yearning for retirement, And a shady seat for his rest. After twelve, The faces behind their disguises Suffocate beneath their silent forms, In desperate need to uncover, In desperate need to break their norms. One man walks out of his stifling room, Turning on lights, flipping through his book; The flickering lights of the empty hallway Whisper of the dying years, With the quiet patience of what remains. An empty chair, an empty bed, A worn-out rug and a rotten egg; If that's what remains then that's the end Of all that is yesterday's and all that's dead. Walk up the road, down the street, It's half past twelve, I need some tea.