I am writing to you

with a fountain pen—

I’m of the old school, you see—

the nib drags across the paper

leaving its imprints;

the words lean downward

as if they are heading downhill.

Nothing amiss.

The clock on the wall

points to twelve.

End for today.

Serious matters tomorrow.

I have nothing to do.

The coffee is finished,

the smell of the cigarette

still imprinted

on the walls and curtains

of the room left empty

after the hasty departure

of even the last

misguided wanderers.

The overcast sky lingered

over the deserted streets.