the difference between you & them is luck | poem

poetry

one would think.

I was living in Nottingham

in a bedsit with windowless rooms.

the walls in that place were splattered with mould

that reminded me of Jackson Pollack’s troubled mind.

a padlock and key were the only two objects

that kept a recently released convict I called, housemate

from being free enough to enter my boxlike room.

when winter came along uninvited

the ex-convict disappeared in the night with two binbags

full of whatever in the world he had left.

around then, I would walk to a local pub

counting bottles and needles and cans

for entertainment until

sat alone in a corner

as though back in a padlocked room.