It's Time

The cock hasn't been seen in a fortnight
but it's time
the vagabonds have all but vacated  
and the windows boarded up
 
don't tell me I should wait
when waiting is wasting time
there is thistle in my hair
and the sun has burnt her mark
 
even coffee's stained the past
looking out through the looking glass
while you're looking in
 
senses spilt her sin
alongside cracks in the concrete
steam lifts off the loathsome
the heated melts the day
 
it's about time
the mocking bird dismayed
lost the feel of home
there's just no place left to roam