unnconected

Unconnected

The divorced men, in my café drink,
coffee and sweet wine, read newspapers,
wear suits that need dry cleaning, and
talk politic till the last bus has gone and
they have to take a cab home.

There they are fatally alone in unaired
beds, piles of washing in the bathroom,
and a bottle of whisky in the closet;
a brave shrug they muster, but Sundays
are days of utter dread.