Mill Road

Afflicted with the cold are the ones who walk here

Pale and prudently prepared for an uncertain future.

Filth ridden street. Everything must go!

Endless rows of unwanted fruit, buried in the snow.

An old man with a cool leather jacket listened to his radio

Journey to fiction, blue trousers, a colourful contradiction

Look at his tattiness and the tattoo

behind his ear, faded across too many years.

Blotched cheeks; whiskey nose; blackened fingers; broken toes-

What poor wretches are these? A gentleman sat outside

An empty furniture shop with a cigar- his suit had turned grey.

I feel sorry for them I really do, I have to see them every day

On my way to work. A bland and unfortunate crowd I always think,

My effete friends shamefully judge them… I defend when I can.

I know what these people go through, I see it in their unwashed faces

And their woeful eyes… It sometimes spoils my mood.

My wife claims to understand, but she’s just a champagne socialist.