The Morning

The harsh glaring light
of the morning sun
on the cobbles, on the walls
The sound of a gull
A truck unloading something
Things that will
definitely  be sold today
A bike ridden by a man in a suit
clatters by over the cobbles
by the canal
He must be
on his way to a secure job
The smell of freshly baked bread
rises from an invisible,
but  probably  tidy baker
reaches my nose
The drink has dried out
left my system
My clothes
are back on my body
The woman left behind

I walk shakily
into the city
where no one knows
that this
is the morning
after sin.