Late night scenes.

It's at that point
In the night
As the minute hand struggles
To the top of the clock.

Most of us
Cuccooned in warm beds.
Some sleep quietly
Some turn with annoying repetitiveness.

Some still party
Adrenaline pumping
In time with the music
Minds swim in atmosphere and red bull.

Some sit desks
Or some other work
TV or radio, their only friend.
But they won't let you answer back.

Some drive home
In metal boxes
Sat there in their own little worlds
Nearly noticing the world flying past.

Some slumped by doors
A cardboard quilt
Just too tired to beg.
No one cares anyhow.

Some sit on a bench
And weep into hands.
A love lost or never gained.
The night is cruel to loneliness.

Some sit on a bed
And stare at a candle
Frantically writing down their thoughts
In another unpublished poem.