The Ten A.M. Thought

that this pissy and ungourmet coffee undercompensates

for a last night on the tiles and the bourbon

with the boys. But my office on the office-block’s top floor

affords a sight for sore eyes, the city

spreadeagled under my estate-agent feet, squat buildings

settled like dice. Their value depreciates like

ice held while their occupants don’t see that life

is a chip in a casino, or a stack of chips

in a casino, and they miss that it’s worth nothing

except what you can use it to play for. What I’m getting at

is not the money. It’s the chance.

Joey Connolly-Wright