The park between Shadwell and Shoreditch
Black cargo pants, with those black bomber jackets to match. The not quite man, not quite boy. Sits on the park bench in utter joy. Can of Stella in hand, he takes a swig. Simultaneously the smoke from his tobacco stick pours over him. As he rests, back against the trunk of the tree, the beat pouring into his ears engulfs him and he bobs his head up and down, allowing his hands to join in the celebration and then in a
swift motion
he clamours back to earth.
More swigs of the potion.
- A poem from last year that I rediscovered in my notes. I never want to let this one go. I remember exactly when I wrote it, at a time when the future was more hazy than it ever has been. Yet the quality of my life, the freedom I felt, unmatched. I fear I may never be that free again. But that’s a discussion for another time, another place.
