one white chair

one white chair
two red, a table
surface stained
by the dregs of a thousand bottles
tired rings of excess
homage or spillage - depending
on the season

scorched black
by the tips of a cigarette army
awaiting
a joan of arc death
on a bonfire night
how bravely it stands
its ground

a dragonfly
hovers its brief life away
smelling and sucking
that sweetness of being
before the inevitable
dive
into the dust

cars shudder past
on their way to where
tokyo or cairo
or a trip to the shops

the grass grows
visibly
but fails to impress me
nonchalantly drinking
from my plastic cup

while the body next to me
snorts out her dreams

where are the birds?- i wonder
and sip again
there should be birds

as darkness slowly floats down.