#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo #curry


homeless and starlings gather for feeding time
- something spicey by the smell of it -
   and the language is to expected
'you're from fucking burnley
you're not even fucking homeless
if you didn't fucking inject what daddy sends you
you wouldn't fucking need this fucking food'
   and the people are just as bad

and you recognise the army sleeping roll
   bundled under arms
and remember the snugness of the hood
      that air of bored companionship
      the enforced silence
      for fear that friendship will con you

food doled out
   they disperse to the benches
      and eat with plastic spoons

knowing that the loneliness of charity
   will soon return

the braver ones will bed down
   or make one last effort for money at the bus station

while those with more dignity
will find a quiet corner
a floor
a hostel bed
and use whatever means

The Blue Book

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