‘..and he walked a crooked mile..’

This could have been written in Wapping but it wasn’t
it was penned in ink by a stranger I met who was cleaning his face with battery fluid, I asked him if doing it that way extended his life, he shrugged and said, what else is there and who cares anyway?

I watched his life as it dripped down his chin and into the drains and wondered if the drains were full of such lives.

It doesn’t matter to me because it is as it is and I expect nothing more.

I’ve started collected holes
and not just any holes
the ones I collect are
black holes
I have lots of them and for storage
it’s easy
I just pop one hole inside the other

sometimes it’s difficult to tell them apart
but
I don’t want to number them
so I suffer this small drawback.

One day I’ll find the ‘golden’
black hole
the one where time extends its hand
and stretches out to take me in.

Fantasy?
probably.

The man with the battery fluid is not
there anymore,
just a lonely stain on a cracked pavement
and he was right,
who cares anyway?

© 2018, John Smallshaw.