Friday, 1 February 2013


My face is the colour of the pumice they used on me at school. I’m on
my spot before sunrise. I’m there before the suits pass by.
They don’t
know my name. They look at me kneeling outside a bank 
in a town
that’s in-between bigger towns. I may as well be a pigeon. 
As my old
girl said, they’ll miss me when I’m gone. They’ll mark my 
spot with
posies and tape up photos of how I was. They might not be 
sure if
I’m begging or not. I scrape away at my fiddle. They might not 
be sure
if I’m practising or busking. Sometimes I frogmarch myself 
the road. That’s me: muttering, like a crow. Other times, I laugh 
smile my yellowed teeth. I’m tall. And my beanie makes me taller.

But you wouldn’t know that from the way I kneel. I’m folding in on 
myself. I’m hiding from the world in the best place to hide: outside.

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