At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will encounter them
Parka-clad and porcine
Traipsing the park’s perimeter,
Or threading ancient woodland
Chuffing disposable vapes,
Rooting through hedgerows
For tattered pornography,
Taciturn scarecrows
With interchangeable turnip-heads
Lashed to a dead-eyed terrier,
Last ember of spirit snuffed out.
Yet even the dogs pity them,
Their balding, brooding masters,
One payday loan from the noose,
Plying their restless purpose
In half-arsed livery,
Home more prison than refuge,
An emblem of all they had
And lost, now listless buildings
Reeking of last night’s drink,
Spunk and shame, rank nights
Obsessing over barre chords
And Babestation, the freckles
On their mothers’ arms,
The love that was refused them,
The wars they never fought.