Poetry / Poets

Home by Nick Gerrard

The days merge into one.
The day brings little in the way of light, the night, only frights.
I lie clutching my knees up to my chest.
Wrap the threadbare smelly blanket around me, as best I can.
I have layers of articles,  about me, in between, holey jumpers, to block out chill winds.
My reluctant neighbours are never restful..
Their bloody boney dogs bark all night.
There’s screams and songs and fights, their attempts at a society;
keep them alive,
but me awake.
I barely sit up to receive the daily watery soup and lumpy tea.
Someone slipped a half bottle of comfort, into the inside of the army overcoat, while I dozed.
It blocks shivers, and reality, for a while.
I slumber and dream.
I have enough backy to stiffle my screams.
So, I am content, more or less.
I have all I need.
A cheek to stroke is all I wish for, all I miss, maybe all I lack.
The snowflakes are falling.
It’s Christmas I can tell, people pass in a good mood, and offer me a smile, at least.
Some are leaving little tokens of coins and cake, at my door post.
Others a boot in the gut, just for a laff, a kick in the eye.
Someone comes, offers me a hand, to go with them.
But I don’t go. I am happy here in my home,
as I wait for another day, to pass me by.
As I blink my eye, a star shines through the cardboard roof, projecting a trickle of warm hope on my face.
I close my eyes, and sleep and hope to walk into the light.
And never again to wake.


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