By James Kelly Quigley

On the white lane of my heart  
I can see for miles, leagues
in every direction, even down. 
No one is coming to save me. 
So tonight I open the blinds 
to face the slow, bright music. 
To think it was me 
who'd been singing all this time, 
confusing the sex-starved birds. 
This place is swollen with light, 
cock-eyed, punch-drunk, 
and its ears are cauliflowers.   
Loneliness costs gobs of money 
but the pink champagne is gratis. 
And it feels somehow overdue.