It‛s Late

It‛s late.
The town lies back in 
its proprieties,
the outside walls all
wearing
their best dark suits.  
We are left
with ourselves as our
only subject matter.
It‛s late.

It‛s late.
Laughter would be too
loud now.  It is
the time for the hunh.
Hunh.  It is the time for
talk to dwindle
to nothing, to pretend
to be asleep,
to sleep.
It‛s late.