An emaciated tree
clinging to its blackened leaves,
the wind snuffles chip-cartons.
The road’s an aerial view
of dirt-dragging streams,
its scabs peeled off by tyres.
Clouds collect exhaust-fumes.
A man takes his beer-gut for a walk,
his wife follows on a lead unseen.
They won’t climb up on plinths
where benches ought to be
and pose like shop-dummies.
Lamp-posts droop their nightly heads,
strays will do the watering.
Graffiti yells, but nobody’s listening.
by Mike Jenkins