You’re soaking and you’re strung out
but your sleeping bag’s been wrung out and
it’s wrapped up in a damp rag that you carry in your rucksack
you turn your back on Strutton Ground and you strut off into London’ town
like some mad demented peacock, but you’re off to rock the Casbah with your crazy words or wisdom which you gleaned from empty matchboxes so very long ago.
The coffee opens early for the bird that scratches daily for a meagre bit of warmth to feed the soul.
and by St Pauls, the balls of grasping pawnbrokers are gleaming in the frosty air
‘pop the weasel ‘ goes in there quite frequently
you see the emptiness of picture frames in streets you recognise, no names,
because no one would remember them among the worn out suited gentlemen that you became but then it doesn’t really matter anymore.
the evening strolls in awkwardly,
but maybe that’s just how I see it and
it could be elegantly
I don’t know.
and we’re back to Strutton Ground not far from Scotland Yard
the new one, the old one’s not too far from here and near Trafalgar Square, but you got moved along from there too many times, too many moons and wines ago.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.