A Watchman
His tangled walrus stache goodnights the last employee. Geared with just a torch and cosh, he now patrols the boundary. Half-past eleven. Crickets prating. With panache, the moon stares down through snail-paced troops of clouds. That polyester cap; blue uniform, emblazoned with a badge, of which he’s proud; a thermos, storing tea, to keep him warm; and Max, his labrador, who’s ever quick to lift his eyelids when they start to dip. Five rounds are done; the darkness growing thick. Flumping, he fills a cup, slow-draws a sip, and gazes at the clock that’s carrying on its work; the hour hand still far from dawn.