So, you write, he says, and squints
at the ‘shite’ on the paper.
we drain our tired pints.

Trekking to a gritty scheme
fading under
tattered seams, a fog

of urban poverty descends –
dead-ends and darkened alleys,
gangs that drift where multi-storeys crowd.

We skip through
pools of sick, passing cars
jacked up on bricks

with filigrees of rust,
insured for theft by lack of M.O.T.
(The subject matter’s miles.)

Then turn where Big Mac cartons
pave the road, glass is weeping
bucket-loads and, here,

at last, is home – windows are a board,
the door is 2 by 4’d, to cover
what he calls the working day.

And hey, for a corner
off my giro I can buy a bag
of sunshine that’s a poem.

Doug Gray

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