December 26, 2015

 

 

The bench, my own

just for tonight.

Warm wooded slats,

the soul, to excite.

 

Free from the draught

of winter’s bite,

and wind blown leaves,

and doggy shite.

 

 

The bench, my own

til morning light.

The sky my ceiling,

twinkling bright.

 

No mortgage plan.

No rent arrears.

My shower – rain water,

hiding tears.

 

 

The bench, my own;

I slept well last night.

And awoke with new hope;

the aroma right.

 

Near my arm, a Big Mac:

I knew there was a god.

And a can of beer tied with tinsel

left by some kindly sod.

 

 

 

 

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