The Oncoming

The Oncoming On the wall in my room a temporary sunlight, valiantly struggles with a shadow, or perhaps they are dancing a slow waltz: see a tiny bust of Johann Straus on the bookshelf, who spent the last ten years of his life moving from town to town in hope of escaping death. I look out of the window, a river of cars and a bank, outside it an expensive car is illegally parked, a patrol car slows but doesn´t stop as the car oozes economic power; stops instead near a cyclist, an officer tells him to use the road and not the pavement. Waltz is over and rough sea slams against the porthole, I must have been dreaming or is it my past and future that dance macabre?