Modern times?

The bus shelter has its tenant again tonight
Bedded down inside a rucksack and black plastic bag
Rain sleeting down, running off the inner window of the shelter
The soup run conversation, similar to last night
The night before and previous nights
Gave very little insight into how he was
Health wise or mentally
He would just say, thank you for the food and if the Lord spares me
I’ll see you tomorrow night
The murmur of those passing by must sound like the volume
Is turned up to the highest of decibles
The orange street lighting beaming in on him
Makes life that much more intorable
From his bed for the night
The yacth club, no more than the lenght of two olympic swimming pools away
Hopping with the sound of party revellers
The emptiness, the hunger for life outside the shelter
Comes once 6am arrives
Life at this time finds him under a nearby bridge
Waking to a world unchanged from
Yesterday, yesteryear, the squalk of gulls
Rats doing what rats do
In this town full of voices, nodding heads
The only constants in his life
Fear and the chime of the 24hr town clock.
(c) Chris Black. March 2018.