Will Vigar

a writer of sorts

Not Gold

fools-gold

A rucksack, mugger torn, spills a life

to the floor. Gathering the remnants;

wallet, money, destination gone;

 

no choice but a park bench; enamelled

metal and stale beer sticky; gooseflesh,

nipple hard, through skinny, ripped denim.

 

In Finsbury Park, he gains comfort

from constellations, bright as the light

in his naive eyes. Orion sighs,

 

and pursues the Pleiades across

the Seven Sisters Road, losing them

below the Westway; calling him home.

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