Dark comes early, and wet snow.
The citizens hurry from work,
scarfed, buttoned, thinking of supper,
the tram clanking and squealing
in whose glass an arm has wiped
a V of lit space wherein smoke,
old and young wrapped for winter,
eyes focussed somewhere ahead,
dreaming perhaps of a sausage,
of bread, coffee, a warm bed,
a bullet in the back of the brain.
Then they’re gone. Next comes
the future. It looks like the past.