Two blocks from our high street stands the casbah bar cafe,
where loiterers and some say illegal migrants puff at nargile in these cold autumn days.
Others, blinded by dusk and melancholy and other afflictions,
stand and smoke smuggled Russian cigarettes.
Some laze around on worn out chairs outside the cafe,
drinking coffee and listening to early Cohen.
At dusk all are equal so we think,
The resident poet, the illegal migrant or the affable conservative voter.
And yet each dusk is different and brings different pain.
We havent seen the well read girl
with long brown hair for weeks,
days are getting short and it will be winter soon.
I remember last winter,
when we met last and when you left.