my dustcart a shield
i grasp at happy meal boxes
in an unkind wind
my mother isn’t angry
she’s disappointed

i cradle the bear
her loving companion
since childhood
i ask it straight
what do i do now

i walk the field
where we built straw castles
as children
i heard recently the first of us
are beginning to die

after years on the run
i’ve finally caught up
with myself
we are both
getting used to the idea

filled with the spirit
she confesses
on the night bus from town
apart from the driver
we vote she shall be forgiven

Until recently Steve Black was a road sweeper living within spitting distance of London, and is now looking for gainful employment. Published now and then.