What nobody knows is what I have. The streets, the city. Nobody sees what I see. After everyone has staggered home and the kebab vans have driven away. The dark void of a sleeping people; the quiet. The infected glow of a yellowing sky. The crystallised breath that escapes up into it and the warmth of a dog at my back. Then the pink rays of day. The icy light slinks over me. And the coffee shop owners and early morning commuters step into it and rush to work. I could hold it all in the palm of my hand. They don’t own it like I do.
And every possessed morning, I pass a coffee shop and search the bins at the back for a sandwich, a muffin, anything. And everyday I see him, squatting, doing the same. But I know he went home last night, and slept in a bed, huddled up to his wife and seven children. He doesn’t know the morning, the city. Like I do.
I followed him home once, down the piss-stunk streets of the port to a lonely shed loitering on the banks of the canal. Seven hungry mouths peered through the window. Seven.
I imagine he comes from a far off land, with eyes so small and hair so black. I imagine his life might have been like mine back there… But I hope better. There, at least, he spoke the language. I see him stride off to the pie factory with purpose. And I am not jealous.
Sometimes I stroll the city, and I see people; people bound by ovens and computers and wives and friends. I see the smashed bottles and sandwich wrappers of satisfied stomachs. I see the heads nodding to earphoned melodies. I stop and watch from my bench. Sometimes I stick my palms out and bend my head and pretend this is not happening. Sometimes I sing with a hat and a grin. Until the police move me on.
And he will pass sometimes, after work, and smile, and maybe even bow. And nobody sees this courteous exchange between two friends. They just march; hands shoved deep into pockets, heads wound deep beneath scarves, no eye diverted from the jagged scars of the pavement.
|
etcetera.online
