Home To Roost

Late at night,
Near dawn,

A hollow yawn,
Dry mouthed
And tethered
To the table,

Unable to speak,
Just moans and groans
Like a boxer
Old and broken,

Shades and tones
Of some poor bastard,
A token soldier
Home to roost

Then roasted
Under lamplight.

Empty bottles clinking
As the shaking floorboards
Greet another
Passing train,

It’s either the start
Or the end
Of the gloomiest film
Never written,

Or a plain old excuse
To keep drinking,

As the bells
And the gunfire
Die down

And the ghosts
Start their strange
Wistful singing.

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