There you stand in
your grey shirt
and your Sports Direct shoes
tired little writer
with nothing to lose
but the love that
you’ve found and
the books you have left
and the intimate
knowledge of a wallet
bereft
and you squint
and your scrutinise
this thing you’ve become
wearing those shoes
as though you’re
wanting to run
and run more and
keep running
and not once ever stop
lying to yourself
that you won’t ever
be caught
whilst you’re waving
your grey shirt
in bungled surrender
and Jackson Browne-alike
singing
pray for the pretender
as you know all
the while that even here
on the edge
it’s a long way down
from your oubliette ledge
it’s a long long way
from your dreams
to the floor
so don’t quit this
not yet
but still don’t shut the door.
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