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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