Late night odour

Six o'clock in the evening at boulevard 16.
Hour after hour, second after second.
I stay locked in a private room
In a laptop square, they call it Art.

And my window in front of an American restaurant.
My cup of tea with eastern taste.
And the night wind brutilizes the walls.

As I obey and obey and laugh...
To the ticking of Tips,
Endless peeping comments,
And the ghostly green dots in front of me.
I hear voices from pole to pole
And barking dogs marching next to the restaurant.

The steak odour sneaks from my window..
And the horde won't wait for late dilevery.

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