This evening he is counting out his time
Among the used and the unwanted, here

In Classified; where now he finds himself
Considering a greyhound to adopt,

Imagining a fragile brindle, coiled,
As patient as a clock spring, on the chair,

Or padding round the terracotta floor -
The quiet tick of claw on clay.  And there,

Behind those dark and kennel-weary eyes,
The memories of fleeting freedoms play:

the leap

of escape
the dazzle of light on the fast track
racing with the crowd
chasing the impossible

never looking back.

Stephen Payne

If you've any comments on this poem, Stephen Payne would be pleased to hear from you.