Friday's Sonnet.

The clock
tick tocks
towards an undecided
ending to the day.
There is string music
coursing through these walls
and wafts of freshly cooked rice
incite my head towards
a warmth
that the outcomes will not refute
this time.

The taste of coffee
and the smoke
from a freshly extinguished cigarette
is all and everything.
I will dance towards them all
shortly,
but not quite yet.
First I must make sure
that I am not amongst them
as a sufferer of them.
I will be there to listen
to their once a week drunks
before I retire to what I have
around me now,
but with them in mind
as the day closes
and the bluebird
returns home.