After 3 Poem by Jacqui Thewless

After 3 the air's
sucked into the chimneys
as if it were grenades;
force ten gusts
batter the windows with ram-rod rain-shot.
I note
the violence of walls'
battles with the elements.

In my room,
there's a yellow door
lit by a cool bulb under an innocent shade.
White curtains
fall like Swiss mountain mists
from the frame of the closet where I keep my clothes.
Most of us
in this street are asleep.