Poetry

OUTSIDE ST. VINCENT’S

The man
long nosed and lachrymose
is sitting
on the corner
of a
low brick wall
bracing himself against its weight
his hands
splayed helpless
on his legs

There are benches
he could wait on
but perhaps he could not swing
then
so easily
onto his conveyance

He’s suspicious
of examination
meets my gaze
once
and then
looks studiedly
down the Parade

as my tram
pauses
at the lights
bears me away