His Twilight

He used to sit and rail at the evening sun

when it would beam between the buildings

brilliantly after a day of flood.

He would curse the disgraceful waste of glory,

as if God or a random weather wicket keeper

was playing meteorological jokes aimed

just at him.

Not that he could not have walked from his door

and enjoyed the prodigal glut of sun

if he had wanted to.

But that would have been giving in

to whatever smiling sinister thing

aiming the magnificence straight at him.

So he would sit and glower at the golden gloaming

suspicious at those he saw enjoying the weather

foolishly down below in the streets,

as if they were the  true victims of the shady twilight.