He took a knuckle of tobacco –
naked but for a blanket cloak –
in the moonlight of the kitchen,
smoked a length of cigarette.
He drank a cup of tea.
He drank a cup of tea –
rolled another cigarette –
on the pre dawn carpet shapes
the birdsong calling from the shadow.
The radio is too quiet.
The radio is too quiet –
the ashtray brims with slim pickings –
the oblong window of curtained morning,
naked but for a blanket cloak,
he drank a cup of tea…