by DANNY KEIGHTLEY
We could rest our heads together
among crisp packets and cigarette ash;
nestle together on a cold bus
shelter bench. Until the hustle of feet
forced us on, we could crowd in front
of shop shutters; til the sea shooed us
from jagged rocks, we could
sleep on a shore of broken bottles –
stand the night until tomorrow.
Safe as houses on cinder;
vagabonds beyond their windows.