Mr Trent

From Surbiton to Sussex Gardens

Mr Trent makes his way,

nose downward, stepping on cracks,

wishing for things he knows he lacks.

With shoulders hunched and hand-filled pockets

Mr Trent will not say,

“sparks upwards, let the centre collapse,”

he risks his life in commuter traps.

Meanwhile,

there are shadows in the fog,

wraiths at the edges of his tired vision,

lives at margins sure to sell

sometime.

No-one hears the mermaids' song,

accompanied by Tired Tom

on the coffee spoons.

From flaming youth to middling-age

Mr Trent cannot pay;

lips serviced, grasping hands out

begging for love or comfort no doubt.

From Gropecunt Lane to King's Cross station

Mr Trent comes to play,

pole upward he is ready to thrust,

looking for happiness, finding lust.

Meanwhile,

there are children left at home,

ghosts on the margins of his sluggard life,

words unspoken, lies to tell

someone.

Someone heard the mermaids sing,

perhaps Mr Trent or Tired Tom

on some afternoon.