Most of us live in boxes.
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.
Graffiti’d walkways skein between flats
where old folk stay indoors after dark
and mothers cry at children’s choices.
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, casual and quiet-or through
job-centre hoops, that pin dignity to our sides
offer rules, prising questions.
Most of us would love a little bit more.
For the girls wedding, school uniforms,
a night out with mates.
While the twist in our gut grows every day
of doing without and the only chance
is a lottery ticket that never comes up but we…
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reubenwoolley 