January Second

is when you see the city

return to the humdrum:

standing in long queues at Starbucks,

selling the Big Issue  –

head garbed in a hand knitted hat –

by bins brimming with post-pub mulch.

Soon, shaky-pale students

will hand out Shortlists for free,

cleft-eyed; split from sleep,

whilst a commuter decants

from her shiny-new bicycle – its wicker basket

gleams empty from the mist-hung air –

unsure where to chain her prized

gift on the fence of grit-weathered specimens;

box-fresh ankle boots stamp.

But then the homeless man –

the one who wore glasses

and had front teeth before Christmas –

points out a gap where it’ll be safe,

unlike him, who sleeps in any space

to shield from the grit-weathered streets.

Her flushed face shakes:

lined-eyes stream past her coral nose,

her coral nose streams into lined-lips,

her lined-lips mouth words unfit for children,

box-fresh ankle boots stamp once more;

the homeless man waved away.

January second is when the city

returns to its apathetic ways;

to its grit-weathered routine;

unwilling to squeeze into new gaps.

Tomas Bird - Glass Wood 2016