When I lie down

When I lie down

Wrestling with sleep

Or a lack of

I ask if I’m satisfied

With what I’ve achieved

Did I write anything

Did I create anything worthwhile

Does it matter

When will I stop fooling myself

With the belief that it does

When it barely registers

As a blip

In the grand scheme.

Of course, that’s not why I do it

And the admonishment is quick

As self-flagellation comes easily

A product of postwar parenting

Which aims to

Prove that social mobility

Is for other people,

Those more deserving of success

Than me

When will I realise they were wrong

And so was I.

Longing to find a home

Adrift in a sea

Of glass and steel

Reaching as high as the eye can see

Too much chrome

Too many design classics

That already look dated.

Too inclined to lean on reputation

They luxuriate in property tax

Some of the flats I visit

Are too small with windows too wide

The illusion of space

To create

A pretence that the outside is in.

Square yards are at a premium

The swinging of cats

Is not recommended

But the view is to die for

Darling.

As the sun sets over the city

There is always a nightmare

Somewhere.

Dystopia is more than a word

To use in a graphic novel.

The dawn chorus

Never reaches the tenth floor

Pigeons struggle with heights

Sparrow Hawks rule the roost

But rarely rest on their laurels

And all the while

The ne’er-do-wells

Pitch their tents in car parks

Sleep head to toe

In St Mungoes

Sharing beds with the mites

Who bite indiscriminately.

If you aim high enough

You might catch a glimpse

Of the rich folk

With the Monaco glow

Who live above the clouds

To escape prying eyes

As the rest of us

Scrabble for a

Few poetic words and a foothold

Before the ladder

Is pulled up even further

Beyond our reach