Underpass
I think the tree by the bus stop is dying.
Not in the obvious way,
but from the inside out.
It’s one of those trees that-
look like giant Brussels sprouts.
Its thin, leaf-laden branches fan out far,
like they’re trying to root themselves into the sky.
You can barely see its end,
hidden amongst waxy leaves-
and weather worn branches.
The leaves that used to live-
where the trunk meets its bough,
now stay with their dried twigs-
at the base of the tree’s trunk.
Everyday I walk by,
more leaves gather,
and more trimmings fall.
There’s something in the breeze at the high street.
I see my tree on every corner.
He was there this morning,
down by the bridge,
taking the road leading out to the high street.
He looked out of context moving through the crowd.
He walked too slow for me to keep my distance,
too slow to hide the shuffle in his steps.
Each time he came close to passersby,
they would melt away.
He kept his eyes on the ground,
His right hand picking at the hole-
growing on the corner of his tight shirt.
It’s been months since I’ve seen him.
The last time,
he was outside Greggs,
leaning against the bakery’s glass window,
counting the pasties on display two at a time.
What is it about pity that suffocates?
It’s like tasting air straight from someone else’s lungs.
Air whose strings are water.
They flow out,
only to curve-
then snake back in.
I feel it most when I see them there,
each of them snuggled under duvets,
spread across the four nooks built into the underpass.
It’s hard to walk past them without tasting salt.
Without seeing the mirror reflecting off their eyes,
their hands becoming mine as they pull at their covers.
Plastic bags, bursting with Lidl biscuits and old shirts-
shift into wardrobes I haphazardly filled.
