In the politics of shame, I have no stake.
My state a broken playground for addicts.
Cities are war or never war.
They all look the same for luxury and its fruit.
One of my pieces is
the “unexpected shove”.
A hefty one, in the back or
a sideways dig in the ribs
(explained by yellow grin).
And my “collapse on irritants”:
some shrieking café, indignant liberals –
broadsheets rustle amid complex coffees.
I totter on standing and fall on their tables.
Screams, yelps of surprise.
Floundering attempts to rise, my
front crawl or butterfly strokes
scatter the Portuguese
custard tarts and muffins.
I try to mop up and
explain frailties,”blood sugar,”
weeping apologies; mutter
about residency worries.
© Paul Sutton 2016
Illustration Nick Victor