28.10.2025

By far, it's not that it's 

Actually cold, but 

There's an absence of 

Warmth in the air 

Already, I sense the 

Truncated light, that 

Turns grey afternoons 

Into ink-black-blue nights 

Already, again these 

Old bones of mine 

Have turned into picky, 

Dith'ring, crack'd sticks

Who beg me to pull on my father's old coat, 

A seasonal surrender,

But I protest! Look,

The sun is still bright as it

Was in July, 

And flocks of white sailboats 

Still rock on the bay 

But closer by 

To where I stand 

The roof where my friends roost,

Is silent today

No cooing or flapping, 

No comforting din

Just empty and quiet

No performance given

And down, below

Where the streetcats yowl

Or laze, in afternoon's 

Dust speckled sun

It's deserted too; no 

Amity found

There's only the city's 

Far-off, lonley hum.