Walking My Streets
somewhere-near-poems appear and I scribble below the token street-light:
Lads on bikes pedal endlessly around the shopping centre.
In half-light everyone is dangerous.
This March night
has me huddling into my overcoat.
A wild-eyed man passes
talking to his distant heaven.
Going further than intended: I feel uneasy singing an old tune.
On an abandoned mattress
a dog sits in the greyness
in our world where fear
makes you drink to oblivion
your only wish to sleep
dreaming of nothing.
I believe there is some kind of salvation in these back lanes, almost lost to cars,
mooching into each other as frost sweats on windscreens.
My door key is buried under the I-phone, burring an insistent hurt.
Breath haws, shoes too loud and must be attracting the virus.
