Out, out, brief candle.

So twas the day after my birthday and i was on top of the world,but theres always something that puts me back in my place.

My euphoria was ill founded.
As the smell of bitter black coffee
Permeated the city air,
I passed the concrete bed….


So I sit on this train,
Alone with the strangers to share my experience
The drivers voice resounds
Across the carriage
windows with such a verbose intensity,
That it renders me
Thoughtless, all I can do is laugh
As he heralds central station as the
glorious next stop.
He thanks me with such smart arse gusto for
choosing city rail.
When recomposed
From my convulsions of laughter
I look to the others
for recognition
that the pleasure of the moment was mutual.
Their dour faces collapse my helium balloon,
And as I come crashing down
I remember earlier passing the concrete
bed of the dead man.

Clyde Livingstone.
Those that shared the same endless bed as him,
(In the place where the pigeons strop and the workers fret,
in their shoulder padded suits, heeled boots
where their ties loosen by night
as they superficially strengthen their bonds)
had placed a little flame in the inner most corner of
his resting spot
on red cardboard they wrote of how he touched their lives
and how they would remember him.
These forgotten people
not forgetting the dead man.
All the while the workers pass,
As they unnoticed,
tended to the brief candle.
Which flickered constantly to the ignorant hum of the
whoosh of the suited briefcase.