Songs at 4 am - a poem by Chris Zachariou

It's the twentieth of December.

The Jewish minstrel strummed

his chords at 4 am and nailed me
to the stave in every minor scale.

I drift around the freezing streets
searching for the stairway
back to us in Little Venice.
Lovers mingle on the bridge,
they hold hands in bars and small cafés
and boats glisten on the water.

In your haste to be the Avant-Garde queen,
you denied me three times before the morning
and each time you grew more distant.

'There will never be another premiere,'
the master of ceremonies cries at noon.
Black limousines are waiting outside
my door, the red carpet is frayed
and scarred, and still, I hide behind the curtain
yearning for a glimpse of your fragrant life.

It's cold and dark today in Little Venice.
The light is fading fast, Christmas will be here
in five short days then a bleak endless winter.
Numb, I sit by the water scribbling muddled
verses about the jigsaw piece still missing.