ShadowThe minute hand is taunting,
Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.
With stiff hands
I smooth down my trousers
And wait.

Toe scrapes tarmac;
I fiddle with my phone
Like I have OCD –
Maybe texting is down.

Dance a restless waltz, boy,
In the flare of passing headlights.
Shift from foot to foot,
To the beat of tyres on the boulevard.
Sway on the grey tombstones
That edge this place.

Drizzle joins me,
I pull my collar up
And pick at a button,
Pursuing the smooth edge
First with my fingertip,
And now with my nail,
Waiting, waiting, waiting.

The amber eye of the tall street lamp
Stares down at me
And my single shadow.

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