In her regulation daytime armour
still cracking with coarse whispers
and yesterdays broken promise,
the young girl pushes
her vape shadowed baby carrier
past boarded up pub windows.
Her world is the High Street
where each day
a bitter grey tide
shambles downhill
towards abandoned blue churches
and disappearing city light.
And it is here
plastic shoes will slap
into one off needles
that litter fishless gutters
and where, even on dry days
the pavement is damp.
Steve Coel
Steve Coel
