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I saw a grown man cry for a dry pair of socks,
Locked in a cycle of despair.
He peeled back the layers of nylon and skin
With bone-thin hands demanding care
And finding none;
Weeping as the pain came
And stole the comfort from him.
Trenchfoot. On a 21st century street,
Just a few failing feet
From a fast-food tax loss
Where outside, some stunted lads stood laughing.
At him.
And me.
"Let him die, boss. Junkie c**t."
I'm alone. And scared,
But I find the word.
The one word that goes on forever.
"Never."
I'm involved in We Shall Overcome, the organisation which runs almost 800 gigs in 142 different towns and cities across nine countries on three continents raising food, cash, clothing, bedding and furniture for food banks, homeless shelters, soup kitchens, crisis centres and youth projects.
We will not stop until the Tories and their ideological assault on our communities are discredited and consigned to the dustbin of history and you can join us at upcoming gigs and major events in October, details: weshallovercomeweekend.com
Poetry on the Picket Line is a squad of like-minded poets putting themselves about to read their work on picket lines, in the spirit of solidarity. Invitations to rallies etc. welcome, contact facebook.com/pg/PicketLinePoets.
