HOMELESS COASTIE

The rain that comes from the gloomy sea's grey
At the end of a wasted winter day
Stings like the tears of homeless man,
Salty like a single malt, replete with Islay’s peat,
Laced with traces of seaweed, never sweet.

His head hangs,

A fright-fraught face hidden by a hoodie.
He zips up his high-viz vest

To chase the chill from his chest, cheerless,
And sips from a brown bag,
After drinking a long-necked bottle beerless.

He had a mother,

And possibly also

A father

For twenty minutes or so,
When what passed for love,

Spurted from hormones set to soar,
Splashing into the fields of right and wrong.

At some point in this dark night he'll wake,
Screaming at the demons

In his technicolour dreams,
That repeat and recur

Like movie themes,

And rattle with riffs

From rowdy rock 'n' roll anthems
Created by a cursed composer

Immersed in money-making schemes.

When the pounding of his heart

Eases enough to bid him resort to thought,
He'll wonder where he is;
And after a time he'll know

His bedroom is not his.