Thursday, 7 April 2016

Daily Poem #6 Nathan

On Gloucesrer Cross: Nathan.

Dressed by the Salvation Army, fed

By City Mission, sits


Maybe it's the drugs that make him simple.


I think not. I think he has always been a child.


Once, his sister took him in, but I guess he wore her out.

He claims no family now.

It's no fun, being an addict.


"Where?" I ask, "Are you sleeping, Nathan?"


"Car Park. Off Westgate Street."


Until, I guess, an upright citizen, with a full belly,

Complains. Or drunken party-goers piss on him.


I think about this, often. There are people who

Stop in sympathy with a pound or a sandwich

And there are people who piss on him.


I am guessing, because you have read this far,

That you are not one of those.






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