I had a desk on the first floor
Of a four way street.
There was a bedroom,
Bathroom and kitchen.
The desk was pushed up against
The window where
I would sit and watch the
People pass below.
I was filled with a great type of loneliness,
The sort that consumes everything
And colours the world.
I'd sit there pouring away hours
Without fear of waste,
Without a sense of
Time’s sands slipping away,
Now, years later,
Time is all that matters and
Whenever I’m in company
I’ll drink with my thoughts turning to that room
And I grow teary eyed
And speak as if talking
Of woman I once knew,
And the desk,
A wonderful dog who died one day.
And I’ll lament, my time now taken,
Sat at other desks, in large room
Surrounded by men in similar positions,
And I’ll think how some other soul
Must sit there now,
Looking down upon that four way street,
Feeling utterly alone in that glorious way.