Bedtime

The sky that never quite sleeps
stares in at me through
the closed window. I stare back
not quite sleeping,
wishing for black and white dreams
like the olden days
and piano keys. The tree, posing peacefully,
knows silhouettes always
look good and pretends not to notice me
poking at emotions,
trying some-heartedly to tune myself
into a melodic shape.
Hear the train gush past; imagine
midnight shadows
drinking train tea from cardboard cups
and looking at the
houses of dark windows to wonder.
This night-less sky
has grown familiar to the point where
it reflects me better,
manmade smog mirrors my mental
state more than stars
could now. Sometimes that seems
coincidence and
other times I wonder too, like train people
going somewhere
as shadows in the light in the darkness.

Tamzin Whelan