This is not a poem about homelessness.
This is a poem about tents appearing
in parks and squares. This is not a poem
about churches that look like garages
or praise songs sung for soup. This is not a poem
about orphaned trolleys full, for the first time
of meaning. This is not a poem about
Keep off the Grass. This is not a poem
about police tape or the words
Forensic Investigations.. This is not a poem
about the man shouting to the hostel window
that he knows Welsh Cunt Dave is in there.
This is not a poem about Welsh Cunt Dave.
This is about me being slow to realise
why the tents appeared. This is about a city
refusing to know itself, scurrying past.
This is about no-one offering soup without Jesus.
This is about the cameras that film the trolleys
and the bins…
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