An exercise in looming deadlines.

Collective

The sky is yellow on days like this
when everyone is sadness black.
The walls bleed public words, defining time:
an engraving there, a peeling paper note;
It doesn't get any worse than this
murmuring past in bergamot breath.

Earl Grey is the only answer anyone has
and it pours freely in waiting rooms for fitting
after fitting of textbook grief. Hobbled
women in their petticoats shuffle
on and out, accessorise with cuts
of purest Whitby Jet.

After hours the tailors watch through grubby
windows, smiling their gap-toothed smiles.
The tufted ends of cotton rolls are the only
softness left. The sky is yellow on days
like this, when everyone steps out in black
and jet, dirtying their petticoats in mud.