Tuesday, 17 November 2009


Streets that cry hurt into the air.
That shout obscenely into the night.
That house people, angry and sad.
Inside, all the grey faces
Become caught in the box-snare.

In the pubs, just off the streets,
Men start the ritual
With sarcasm and booze.
The bell sounds.
Into the streets for a fight.
Down to homes for a fight.
Then to their beds…

I look down from my arrogant tower
And ask myself: Are they happy?
I reply: Am I happy?

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