Poetry

Above the Turkish barber shop,
above the fish and chips and tat,
the hungry windows wait.
Blind witnesses eager to dine,
yearn to feast their empty eyes
on urban scenes of crime.

The blue police lights, 
a violent foreplay,
to the weekend saga,
the colour flickers on old maid lace
and caresses and sickens
a thin and white and greedy face.

Far above the cries and threats,
above the spillage on the street,
a room is crouched behind the lace
and smeared in the corner 
an antique vitrine.

Locks of hair disturbed from scalps,
bloodied ribbons and souvenirs,
fingers from nobody’s hands.

Our hours are too long

and

our tempers too short

and 



our lives are 

caught up 

in the middle.