Scarlet Hours

The kettle's on, the city's still asleep,

I count the trams like other people count sheep.

You left a record turning on the floor —

the needle's at the end, it hums, and nothing more.

I tried to lift it, but I let it play:

that little crackle sounds like you would stay.

So I'll keep the scarlet hours,

I'll keep the light on in the hall,

and if you never call —

the record turns, and that's not nothing at all.