The Eccedentesiast

New Poems

New Poems

 

I see him on my everyday commute to work
In the tube while I try to find my way out the gap
He’s waiting at the till
In his black tilled uniform with a golden tag
And his fake name

His hands are cold, pale and unreachable

He walks his dog in the same park
Where I try to find my way back
To normality
Usually once a week
He rides the bus, preaches, paints and sings
He also dreams, cuts and hits
He swears, boy he swears,
And he comforts me

His hands are cold, pale and unreachable

He smiles
And runs

 

more by URSULA RABAR BABIC

Photograph by Bethany Legg

 

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