by Fiona Robyn
[ poetry - october 05 ]
The pint heís cupped and savoured all afternoon
mixes with the chattering track and warm, used air.
He leans back, lets his eyes close and his mouth open.
Thereís a mug of sweet tea waiting for him at home,
and a small grey dog called Charlie.
He dies quietly between Blackfriars and Temple.
Itís fourteen hours before heís found.
He is thin under his clothes, the men who lift him
put too much strength into their arms.