The Winter winds blow cold and hard
under the desolate railway bridge
but at least he won’t be waking up
to a policeman urinating upon him
this far out from the city centre.
The broken sleeping bag he lays in
is more of a dirty sort of comforter
for the Chills first set into his bones
in Autumn and have stubbornly
remained their laureate ever since.
This is the first night in three weeks
that he is spending vulnerably alone.
John and David the Subway Apostles
were arrested earlier this afternoon
for the killing and partial eating
of a swan from the park’s duck pond.
“Aye, the Queen’s bird it indeed be
and a lot better looked after, cared for
and protected than us mere humans.
They’ll get at least a month a piece
in prison for that, 3 warm meals a day
and a bed out of the rain and cold too.
I’d almost envy them if it wasn’t for
the DTS and beatings that come with it!”
He whispered quietly to himself
as he snuggled deeper into the grubby
polyester folds whilst trying to push
away the intrusive remembrance of his
eldest son’s birthday fast approaching.
About the author:
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.