82/ hope vanishing

I put my last coin in the fruit machine.
All the women in the pub had company.
At the bar I remain all evening,
hope vanishing.
Outside, a car engine turning, a woman’s voice:
“Go home, you’re not getting in,
I’m closing the door, you’re not staying.”

Soon it will be another day,
the seasons are changing.
I lie in the orchard with the scent of flowers,
families leave for the coast.
Hills and cities divide us,
minutes turn to hours.