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.