I sit in this derelict house with our derelict friends.
Abandoned and decaying.
Anything of value was stripped and sold off
Long ago for one more bag.
No grey slates on the roof.
Only a patchwork of crumbling plasterboards
Revealing a skeletal lattice of blue June sky.
No curtains in the windows.
Just cinderblocks downstairs, and up,
Sun-bleached, yellowed newspapers.
Same old stories every day;
Only their clarity changing
As time and the elements
Fades their print and relevance.
The frenetic, White-fuelled chatter of before,
Silenced now by the Brown,
Has been replaced by the gentle snores of chins on chests.
We’re safe up here for now,
Away from the thronged summer streets.
Microfine sentries are guarding the stairs.
Lying there with their orange hats off,
But they’re vigilant.
Pristine and sterile; straight out of the packet,
But the Guards don’t know that
And they’d think twice about crossing them.
There’s a car stopped down at the red light outside;
A snatch of song floats up from the open window while they wait for the green:
Killing Me Softly.