these last nights
the man pacing upstairs
crying out to jehovah
i walk with him a while
until the police arrive

sleep talking
to her dead lover
i roll away
return to living
with my own death

golden days
looking for ieds under cars
with my serving father
before the war turned inside
and a clock began ticking

counting bodies
in the overcrowded lift
and breathe in 123
and breathe out 123
the memory of skin

winter light breaks
on the warehouse floor
the cornered rat
white with asbestos
gives up the fight

Steve Black was born at the end of the summer of love now navigating the gig economy within the shadow of London. Published here and there, now and then.