Sunday, May 17

The Litter

Outside windy the tube station,
thrown umbrellas drag their nails
& rattled bones unspun
they crick
( nimble thin).

‘too much to ask
for a council grave or bin,’
says they.

& the rain grim is un
ready to stop lukewarm
may grey from the businessman’s way.

it’s his babe dropped on the kerb
raking newspaper blossom
toward the bus stop.

‘the litter’ says I
as each crippled limb
waves good-bye.

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