a writer of sorts
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 naïve eyes. Orion sighs,
and pursues the Pleiades across
the Seven Sisters Road, losing them
below the Westway; calling him home.