Most of Us by Miki Byrne

I am not a silent poet

Most of us live in boxes, in a line.

Horizontal, vertical.

Shared walls bleed noise,

won’t hold a screw for the mirror

that shows a million tired faces.

There’s a cream-cracker yard

or a plastic pot for colour.

Meagre grass grows sour.

Or graffiti’d walkways skein

between flats where old folk

stay indoors after dark

and mothers cry

at their children’s choices.

Wring their hands at bad company and fear.

There’s a shabby row of maudlin shops

a cut-price supermarket and an offie.

A bus stops nearby, for a trip to the town

that frowns over its barnacle estates.

Most of us work at what we can.

In the black and the red.

Casual and quiet-

or through job-centre hoops,

that pin dignity to our sides with rules,

prising questions.

Most of us would love a little bit more.

For the girls wedding, school uniforms.

A night out with mates,

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