February 2019
Outside my hotel,
around the corner from the neon mirage
of the central shopping street,
a woman squats in the roadway,
a metre from the gutter
in the cold rain,
pants down
by her bag-lady bag
Behind her a spray
of ochre diarrhoea
bleeds across wet black tarmac
She tries to wipe,
adding bits of tissue to the filth
Her spread broad arse
is a rash of red sores
I can’t
help her
My own gut is unsettled
from random travel food
My socks are soaked, my feet chilled
It’s my first night in Shanghai
whose name means “On Sea”
It’s all one, tonight,
the neon, the concrete, the rain, my
Subway dinner, bun, salad, luck, fate, can’t
find what I want
tonight
I nod to the front desk’s tawdry gloss,
punch the single lift to 6,
navigate passages smelling of yesterday’s noodles,
return to my cramped room
First published in London Grip New Poetry, Autumn 2021
Jackson 