I can’t make myself care about the guns
each day I love this place one more step;
from dank stairwells, a reality TV show
plays out against a concrete backdrop
I’m just a contestant
this one shot dead
has laid in the garden longer than a day
motionless, save the
plum rumbling in his gut -
our symbionts outlive us.
Being here
is like being born
into the wrong religion
yet deserted aisles seduced me with
that too sad light
dripping down at early evening
onto two thousand mini dramas of
deprivation and death.
Blind to the pain of brands and drug debts
unamazed
that after he journeyed into the past tense
not one of us saw him;
perhaps his phone rang and
rats sniffed his pockets.
After the discovery
the police knocked at every door
I answered them
so they couldn’t see
my place has a rich inside
that does not match the outside.
Comments
kim.rooney | January 2, 2008 - 17:18
This news story resonated with me too. In a previous pre-writing life, I walked those Southwark walkways in the sky. As a low member of the local housing bureaucracy, I ineffectually dipped in and out of the lives of the tenanted- failing to get repairs finished, transfers approved. Only the other day, I was telling a friend how we were told to serve Notices Seeking Possession on Christmas Eve, to remind tenants in arrears that paying rent comes before buying anything else- even Christmas presents. Especially Christmas presents.
However, despite all that I failed to do, I did learn not to confuse the concrete sprawl with the lives of those often condemned to remain against their will. There were many tenants I knew who could, as your poem defiantly states, say:
'my place has a rich inside
that does not match the outside.'