Poetry / Poets

I Wish I Could Afford A Carrier-Bag by Paul Tristram

I’ve eaten toast for two days,
smoking the same dog-ends
for the third time.
Exhausted and out of patience
I stand by the kitchen window
viewing the gloomy greys
of this back street.
In 24 hours I get my money.
Tomorrow I will be king again,
but today I am a leper,
hiding behind this
smoke stained net curtain.
Here he comes now, like clockwork,
9.30 every morning
he comes swaggering down my street,
the cheek of it.
Look at that virgin white carrier-bag
holding six cans of Special Brew.
The headache is upon me.
The chills run up and down my spine.
My heart is dying inside me
like a man rejected at the altar
for someone else.
I would weep
if no one was watching.
But I’m watching.

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