Walking in the city centre, rain
falling into my two-tone hair, looking
for something that just isn’t
there any more—or never was.
A boy in black trenchcoat and trilby
strolls, different, confident;
doesn’t look at me, with my melted hair.
I’m just a lump in the crowd, but I want
to tell him, “You’re beautiful. You’re so
beautiful.” or
“I had a hat like that, once.”
Walking in the city centre, rain
depressing my carefully-chosen clothes, looking
for someone who already moved
somewhere else—or never was.
The woman in the Arcane
Bookshop takes, in her careful
fingers, my website flyer, my
photocopied product sample—
poem, titles and link—
reads it.
(I’m sure it’s politically correct.)
She says only “OK, I’ll put that up for you.”
On the windowpane. My words.
Jostled by vivid gig and book ads.
It’s a little black-and-white thing.
All its colours are on the inside.
Jackson 