87 - It's getting late. The traffic whispers low

It’s getting late. The traffic whispers low.
The birds are dreaming as the foxes prowl.
The wind is quiet, and my brain is slow.
Tonight it whimpers. No, this is no Howl.
The office dark, forgotten paperwork.
The church of shadows turned over to mice.
The café is desserted. Lone men lurk,
And look in lamplit puddles, limp with vice.
The taxi motor ticks; its driver waits
For the last train from London to pull in.
The businessman happily pays his rates
To be delivered from the gates of sin.
I wait with bated breath in sleepless bed,
Straining to catch December’s creeping tread.
Thur 30 Nov 2006