2016

The year’s worn out.

Just look at it.

A tent’s gone up

on a brownfield site

and that’s where

its days are lived out.

A cracked-screen phone

plays Bowie and Cohen.
It’s sprayed ‘Br’
in front of the exit sign.

It’s horrified

by its own ambitions.
It never meant
to end up
with a can of Natch,
bloodshot eyeballs,
a damp and dogged rollie.

Under the charred canopy

of a petrol station,
it’s hurling itself
at passers-by.
It wants to be loved.

Across the street,

in the fishtank offices,
its progeny swim
to the surface
and bite at it
with gaping mouths.

Tom Phillips