A man from France was outside my window.
At 3am his voice was the moon,
howling a language I didn’t understand.
He was one place, then another, then a cement mixer.
He was a summer window nightmare.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 6am his voice was a family of birds
screaming for a reason to be awake.
He was a Monday morning bottle bin memory.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 9am his voice was two voices
arguing through phones, through fences.
He was an analogue alarm cock.
A man from France was outside my window.
I think. I hope I didn’t make him up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020