It's a fried egg morning
and the rain bleeds like yolk
past this windowscape of pedestrian indifference.
It's ten past eight
and I'm smoking myself sober,
watching the steam condense.

It's a fried egg morning
across from the Laundromat,
where the spin cycles hypnotise
recovering drunks.
Fat sizzles behind the counter
as the waitress serves up
greasy sausages to some washed-out old punk.

It was a hard night, that's for sure,
catching my kip on the train,
with a newspaper blanket and the stale smell of beer.
stumbling half-blind through the grey dawn
to linoleum and formica
and that slow 'good-morning sugar' atmosphere.

Sunk lower'n the spoon in my coffee cup,
folks say I'm on the out,
but the rumours are grossly exaggerated.
Today's specials?  Waffles and beans,
Spanish omelette topped with grated
mozzarella.