Damp cloth

All cellophaned up in wraparound plastic

nothing left of it, just dust 

and German Shepherds

English-speaking watchmen. 

This weather’s like a damp cloth 

dyed dirty grey with stubborn white spots

cut from the lush old tablecloths 

of the big houses nearby. 

Damp all over the body and it’s getting in

at those weak little joints, and the back.

Christ, one day’s work

and I'm screwed for a week.

It’s getting in alright and it’s staying in too

thoughts rest in the throat 

like the mucus of a dead cat.

Looking up at the rain 

a train comes by over the arches

cuts through that tower like butter

but it won’t budge, not until order of a judge.

Still no justice but peace with a pint

here undercover of the rain.

Filthy trains go by like dirty old men

passengers ghosts in their right place

caged behind steamed up windows

forgiving the past as if nothing ever was

every second thought a ghastlier sigh.