In the carpark stairwell by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

A turquoise mat is fraying

on the piss-stained floor

where plastic bags trail

like discarded ankle-socks.

Foil dishes glint, crowd

cans of empty Carlsberg

spilled across newsprint,

nub ends, crumpled tissues.

A hooded jacket slumps,

warms empty syringes

still as tiny glass birds

who dreamed a skylight.

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