Poetry

ST GEORGE’S ROAD, 7.15 A.M.

What if Piedemonte’s
never stirs
and the boxes sit
unbought figments
on the shelves?

What if at eight a.m.
the bowling club lights
are still the
chief source of illumination
shafting out through the Gardens
like an alien landing
cold and lucid and finite?

What if the morning
doesn’t force the issue
cresting the sky
like a swimmer hoisted
out of a pool?

What if it stays
lazily immersed
in space?

What if she doesn’t wake?