Lights gone out,

eyes like busted windows

on derelict houses,

you live amid the clutter

left behind

by the squatters who,

over the years,

have stayed in you.

 

I see you standing at the bus shelter,

under a sky the colour of a bruise.

Fingers of wind tug at your clothes

like children,

and you ignore them.

 

All the things you've ever had

weren't half as good

as the idea of having them.

 

The haircut you got

didn't change your life

the way the glossy magazines said it would,

and your lipstick smudges

on the filter

of the cigarette you smoke

as you wait for the bus to come

through drizzle

and wind its way around

a damp suburban landscape

of estates and rain.

 

This wasn't the world

the infomercials

and celebrity columns sold you.

 

You ride the orbital,

in a seat stuck with chewing gum

and don't look out the windows

as they fog with other people's breath.

 

Do you ever wonder

why you always end up

back where you began?