EASY STREET
I’ve learnt to be patient –
my paltry, empty existence,
a few ex-prostitutes,
attempts at debauchery,
an animal eating luscious flowers –
happy with salted peanuts, bread crumbs,
the occasional kipper for breakfast, blue cheese –
drawing my curtains when the mood suits,
looking out at clear blue skies,
the fading, dismal light,
ghosts in the trees opposite, terrible,
a wispy cloud over Redan Hill, the cemetery,
a BMW convertible, alloy wheels for a fast getaway.
Sitting here on Easy Street,
gossiping with my neighbours over the back fence,
Helen, the lady with the limp,
Wurzle, who Hoovers my stairs and landing,
waking me up early on a Monday morning,
and Kev, a retired bus driver with pointy ears,
a teenage boy who sleeps over, skeletal.
An alcoholic woman a couple of doors down
with dementia who can’t remember if she’s coming
or going, choking on her puke, a constant blue siren,
ambulance parked
outside her window –
my haircut, a fried potato,
more indigestible onion rings
that are best alone, my memories,
how I arrived here –
some beavers, hustling chicks with army husbands,
a girl called Susan from Alabama,
how she got here, I don’t know,
doing jig-saw puzzles, reading the Fall of Rome
by Gibbons –
Easy Street, police patrols, up and down my street,
a riot going on, Cheshire cats.
Five quid in the Funky,
money talks, bums, drunken bums –
the content of my possessions I could fit into
the back of a taxi.
Simon Robson
Bindweed Magazine 