John Cornwall

You have not seen the sun for days,
it is always dark like unfortunate weather.
Your clothes are as dirty as the city
and the proud arch of your arm cradles
bottles and an occassional cigarette.

The home you left is miles away, your
collection of excuses worn so thin you could
not return to the destruction you have left.
Your bed now is where you fall from a day
in which many faces have seen

the terror inside of you, the terror you
cannot see. The mornings are worst.
For an hour your eyes are clear, capable
of sense and reproach; you would give anything
for the thoughts to go, to leave their questioning

until another time, perhaps until after death.
After the first drink you regain composure
and walk into the day without care.
You shout abuse at those who pass
but it does not matter, you will never

On a bench in the city centre
the world happens.
Everything goes, dismissed.
You sit and stare astounded.

Anger colours in each eye.

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The 2River View, 1_3 (Spring 1997)