Across Bedford Avenue
in the fourth floor window
the antique bird print
is bathed in the light
of a Chinese ginger jar lamp.
Her shadow dances
across the wall, arms
wrapped tightly around herself
in the sway of Terpsichore
singing her melancholy song.
I hear only
the cacophony of the drunk
on the corner
braying to the moon
and the rumble
of the lorry
on Tottenham Court Road.

First Published in The Globe Review, Issue 2, April 2023

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