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May 2, 2018

Volunteering for a lost cause,

The only cause I know.

And, they told me to go home,

The hotel’s booked out, booked solid –

Through June. Then I’ve got no home,

Or muffin breakfast, with coffee.

So I sit in the dirty damp street,

I cry for my cause ….

I don’t dress the part ….

Is this discrimination?

Only in the discriminated’s eyes,

So, they’re better without me.

I take the stairs,

Lifts are frightful things.

For lazy sodden sods,

I just wanted to help:

Now I’m far from home,

I cry at the injustice.

I came. I went. Ever so ….

I don’t dress the part.

But I’m poor. I am the part,

Every action is for the poor.

I slept a day and night through,

I’m tired. Fatigued beyond words.

They say hello. I can’t reply,

There are two now:

But one doctor,

They arrive early!

I imagine humming,

The false illness.

The doctor will know,

She does her hair up for doctor.

Pretty little whore,

I ne’er gazed upon her.

But I’m sure she’s a pretty wench,

Searching for love in the wrong places.

As I. I received my call,

Why then the other?

She goes with haste to her doctor,

Dainty little pretty steps –

With haste of a certain kind,

She’ll ne’er know love.

She’s far too feminine,

We prefer the strong wench kind.

Especially doctors, young doctors most,

He studied hard, for wenches like you –

But not quite. You’re not sturdy,

You have no steady breath.

No vast and expansive pace,

Another plays with medication

As she awaits her love …. doctor,

But, there are too many constraints.

We hear all behind these walls,

Paper thin. A receptionist –

She stirs and stirs her coffee,

Self-made. No break for she –

To cross the street to wonders,

There, they make our coffee!

No stirring there, unless silent,

Silence! The fairer sex.

Why seek doctors?

They prefer Elsa.

Or Elisa. Or Lisa,

You’re a stain on their time.

A strain. They await their goddess ….

Elsa. I shan’t see her again.

Elsa of mornings. I also,

But, my mornings are now at home.

The street before the hotel –

Booked solid through June.

I await an opening, hopelessly,

There are plentiful appointments

To see this doctor. Morning,

Afternoon, eve. Christmas morn.

The poor children surround me,

In the street before the hotel

(booked solid through June)

I recount the fanciest fables:

Santa trimmed his beard ….

To Mrs Claus’ liking.

The reindeer are all black,

And safe and unseen in the night.

It’s coming up on Christmas,

And hotel is still booked out.

Why were you here before?

To cough and splutter and utter.

I already greeted him!

My little cretin –

Sweet little wench,

Do you type in sick bays?

Sick bays for the infirm,

And mentally disturbed.

You ordained them,

Then you took the same route.

A man, a woman. Running a fever,

Suicide headaches, suicide sleep.

Why suicides in June?

Why suicide and not sleep?

We fail – we sleep,

Days and nights, we sleep.

In hotels, on the street

(before hotel lobbies)

I never check out,

This is my suite.

A bed, a toilet ….

A shower on the landing.

The shower, a dirty place,

Top floor. No help with baggage.

How many stars, from my window?

How many stars, on the street?

How many stars, this hotel?

The whores come a floating by:

They climb the stairs,

Proud of their score.

The trick they’ll turn,

Trick turned. Back to the street.

I’m still there. The hotel ….

Just one room ….

Electric toilet,

Sounds of whores

Turning tricks,

All’s changed in this hotel ….

New management,

Prices increased.

No more coffee come morning,

Why then do I stay?

The café before:

It’s here where I pass my days.


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