Two men, fixed on the same thing
Stride straight across the Green
Toward the Council Housing blocks.
Hunched over in thin jackets
Clutching fresh cash for scoring.
Newly cleaned shapeless jeans
Hang from blunt hanged limbs.
Two dark carved-in brown eyes
Dart sharply over shoulder blades
A cough out into the cold,
And hurrying on.
At Newman House, they skip feebly up
The pissy smooth stairwell, and sweat
Along the way to flat number seventeen.
A knock, cough, they’re unwelcomed in.
Excitedly they usher in through,
Alright, sink into the sofa, offer
A chipper cold out innit…? And
Here’s the gear.
They go back to another haggard flat
Kept a bare home on a dwindling thread
By the woman who is holding on for them.
A tightened belt, dig up, shoot, rush
And then fucked on the foam sofa. Done.
She tidies around, makes a list to take
Ties up her hair and heads to the shops
Milk, bread, lemon, foil – and tinsel
To decorate the flat with – a newspaper,
Ciggies. That’s all there’s enough for.
Home again quickly for tea in the warm
To two lads conked out in the flat.