Upon entering the greened-out park,
you find a man slumped beside a derelict potting shed.
The dogs attached to silver chains in both your hands
realise him long before you do,
raising their old white faces to sniff the acidic lull of liquor.
Not long after, you find a blackbird.
Feet first before the heavens,
like that spider you crushed under a Ministers face last night.
Feathers drawn out in its final butterfly stroke toward the air,
eyes plucked out already, probably by a lifelong friend.
And you remind yourself that,
not so different to the pull on your arms,
the soft accidental slide of a baking worm beneath your feet,
that should you peer around the corner
to the sleeping mat of that one slumped man,
or behind a tree, under that park bench, or even
a compost lid,
you’d find no friends
nor amber stout to feed his voice,
just the cramped up newspaper from yesteryear,
three shoes with holes in,
two shoelaces in a river,
him, all alone in the world.
© Eve Redwater 2012