two for a pound

If I was a writer, pens wouldn’t lay parched as I fumble on weighted keys.

their lids wouldn’t be lost and overlooked, waiting for walks to be footed and tea to be poured.

or for wine bottles to be drunk and painted.

pages wouldn’t be left half-written whilst flowers were potted, or whilst family were visited and plans were plotted and unplotted.

i’d not split time into studying and working part-time for one hundred and thirty seven pence less than my year-older peers .

i’d never be lost for a sentence, ever-ready to react with syntax and wit to all that I observed and all I saw fit.

 

so easily distracted, I am the empress of tangent.

 

 

Ever distracted by segregation, subordination and colour coordination.

 

too much to write something that rhymes

to be read in a society that creates the need to appease

and sells the tools to do so.

 

i don’t think the bar-dwellers sat sitting on mismatched chairs

under quirky light fittings would care to hear about the man they passed to get there

 

i passed him too.

but not without pausing

 

he sat rested on a phone box, sheltered only slightly from the wind and less so from guilty eyes

watching paid-for-plastic-bags of food seeming too full

from his eye-level view

 

i handed him a chocolate bar because I had no change, you see.

poverty is relative is what they keep saying,

both sweet toothed twenty somethings

we are at the cusp of different margins

i, with a roof

him, with none.

 

 

 

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