They live on the corner,
Both lost, but together known,
Between the council house and the carpet shop
They make-shift a kerbside home.
She, drug-thin, snow-flake skin
Barely hiding the little left within
Yesterday’s jeans slip slight from her hips
Yet undeterred and unrefined, she effs and blinds.
He, blind-drunk, weaves and creaks
Gaze to the floor, head too laden to lift
Yellowed hands hang from coat worn by time
Wringing the neck of his cheap white wine.
Unbalanced, she trips in her dislocated mind
Lead-footed, he fumbles on his curved straight line
Til jolted, his bottle crashed and caved in
Against the vindictive ticket-machine.
Liquid gold pours down and out
Through the cracks in their cold paved floor
Their nights comfort lost to the ground
Followed by his fury, and her furore.
“Insight; a portrait of a local couple I sometimes see whilst waiting for the afternoon bus