Nothing much happens,

Nothing much happens,

For an hour

Just before dawn,

When he can walk

By Canary Wharf

And think it is the end of days.

The occasional car,

And a night bus

Full of dreary faces,

Staring out,

Glassy eyed,

From a night of excess,

Or the thought of another day,

Cleaning the dirt, from the shoes

Of the city.

And he feels alive.

For the longest time

He forgot what living was,

And hid in shadows,

Waiting for the end.

Hoping it would come,

Wishing his life away.

Living on scraps,

Even the air

Was too rich

For his liking.

But then, he saw her again.

And it all changed.

She drove by

In a soft top,

Hair streaming in the wind.

A princess,

And he knew it was not over.

He would find a way,

To be the man

He used to be.

She would be waiting,

If only he would arrive.

She said so,

And he believed her now.

She wore the ring,

He saw it on her finger,

As she gripped the wheel,

And as she turned her head

He saw the sadness

In her eyes.

The car was her disguise.

All he had to do

Was to turn his life around.

Stop the drinking,

Gambling.

Get a regular job.

Too many nights

Playing cards

In all night bars

Had dulled his senses

To daylight.

But he would be alright.

If only he could make

One last score.

He would never crave

That excitement anymore.

There was too much anxiety involved anyway.

He would find her,

One day.

She would be waiting,

He would bet on it.