90

He sits under the window in a
White silk shirt listening to the radio,
And drinking orange juice. It is 6am.
His hair is abstracted and greying
And rises to a pale crown that
Shines vaguely in the little light from
The windows. The curtains are drawn
So this comes in narrow cataracts, all
Is a dull blue and mainly it is dark.
The radio is low and it is something
About the war. Calm, measured voices,
As under some kind of anaesthetic.

He cradles his eyes in his hand.
They are far back in grey recesses
And they are closed. He gets up and
Reaches for his cigarettes and stands
With one in his mouth doing up the
Black buttons of his shirt. It seems big
In the half light—as if he were a clown,
Or a mime, or a child in a nightgown.