It is quiet in the evenings

It is quiet in the evenings

With only

The sound of the pilot light

Catching the flame to heat the water

For the old boiler

The rattle of pipes

The creak of a tired building settling down

Into itself

The wheeze of congestive heart disease

Blue smoke from a frying pan

Sinking back into the walls

Discolouring the ceiling.

The smell of yesterday’s food lingering

As unappealing as a pile of dirty washing

In a damp room

Going slowly mouldy

Old men living alone

Listening to the radio

Waiting for the shipping forecast

A beacon of reliability

Even when land-locked.

Broken veined bikers

Massage the soles of yellowed feet

With hands as gnarled as oak trees

Remembering an old song

From Easy Rider

When Steppenwolf

Was more than a book by Herman Hesse

Forgetting to change the sheets for another day

Telling themselves it will be okay

To remain a bohemian.

Nobody visits anymore

So many lonely souls

Rarely opening their doors

Wrapped up against the cold

Boomers who thought they would never grow old

Getting fooled again

Sporting comb-overs

Wearing pullovers

Even in summer

Dreaming of sixty-nine

When they believed in revolution

Before haemorrhoids and reflux

Were a convenient excuse

For an early night.

Lying down is easy

Sleeping is a hard

Too many thoughts crowded into

Such a small space,

Invisible are the outcasts

Forlorn are the friendless,

We all need someone to talk to

Before the grasp on words fails

And the sentence ends,

Before it is finished.