Dragged over broken concrete

behind closed doors

just in, another bin bag.

Jacket, not waterproof, torn yes

but in my pockets half a can

and that smoke that fell from me.

Earring trapped in the lining

cosy in its own fur coat, more

rollies in the bashed baccy tin.

Sleeping bag, was blue.

White tin mug, few stains I admit

but well handled. Blanket nicked.

Socks none.

That wet grey jumper needs to weep

some more on someone’s radiator,

couple of tops, one logo might fancy you.

Take it, no name, no label, just leave

mind the broken step and straighten that

fallen black letter ‘cos I’m funny
that way.

No one will notice the passing.

---

 

Hazel Mason was a sister in the NHS and is now a “vocal opsimath” [one who learns late in life] “wallowing in words and the panacea of poetry”.  @hazelmason10

Illustration by Dan Williams