Wednesday 6 April 2011


He's there most nights.
A thousand miles
from the place they call 'home'.
(The meaning is changing -
it's a process he's working on)
His seat at the window.
The small glass:
he watches an ice cube
turn milky in alcohol.
The pouch of tobacco.
The piece of paper
and the pen.

Though far from inert,
he never reacts.
Not even when voices are raised
and fists pound on tables.

They don't annoy him.
They know he's in his element.

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