The clock ticks on the wall. It’s half past four.
The other occupants stir in their sleep,
With drowsy grunts and moans, and breathing deep.
Intermittent drips fall on the shower floor.
The fluorescent light’s a brighter flame
Than any candle burning through the night,
And added glow of fire-place fire-light,
By which Keats strove to write to earn his fame.
Difficult it must have been those nights.
One could not switch the light on, but just creep,
Not to disturb the others from their sleep,
Fumble with matches. Then no watt bulb lights
Pieced the gloom, inspiring concentration.