I’ve been working on this poem lately. It’s about a man I used see around the town.

The Man of the Wet Streets

Vinsie drags his heavy soles

pass the chip shop,

His eyes scan the path

for fallen coins,

His bottom lip hangs

low with juices

Slipping down his chin

over the bristled hump,

Down the neck-bark

into the rushes

That overgrow

through an unbuttoned gap,

And his throat attempts

A thunder rattle,

Unsuccessfully clearing

unwanted puss

From a wounded life.

Vinsie drags his heavy soles

past the chip shop,

As the queue glance

through a steamed pane,

He turns towards them;

his head spins slowly

And that window

becomes the holy shroud,

Dripping lines,

smearing his reflection,

The onlookers

unaware of his Calvary.