I stagger

I stagger

Under the weight of the sky,

The drizzle of rain

A constant,

As the moon burns

In the hollow

Of a cloud

A tallowed candle

Spluttering toward death.

There is a smell of poverty

In the waiting room

Lumpy people

Grumpy old souls

Plumb coloured tongues

With sour breath

Sorry storied

Struck out on luck

Sitting in silence

Piles of dirty sacks

Stained full of rot

And sadness

Waiting for oblivion

As cold as it ever was.

I am thankful for safety,

I wonder about seat 11A,

The weight of survival

Measured in guilt

Carried forward.

There is never enough grief

Sadness is always waiting to claim

The unwary

Self-blame is endless.

A sunken-faced inspector calls

The time,

His trousers are too loose.

He is the incredible

Shrinking man

Perhaps he has cancer

Or a wasting disease.

The policeman

In the high-viz yellow vest

Has eaten all the pies

I don’t like his apples.

He fills the door

With rancour

Eclipsing the light.

He uses a baton

To poke the sleeping

The dead don’t move.

He has done it before

And carries himself

In expectation.

I hope he is wrong

And pray for the safe return

Of all who seek asylum.

Not that I’m a patron saint

But death in a bus depot

Is a sad end

For anybody

With no home to go to.