Kent Street

To the battered pram bearing a tenement’s pain.
To the rank, winding concrete stairs to poverty.
To the cardboard boxes of empty promises.
To the overflowing gutters of human history.

To the pawn shop’s tarnished balls of unholy trinity.
To the red-eyed mists of the Barrowlands Bar.
To the barber’s candy stripes sweetening stale air.
To the shells dangling in the Oyster Bar’s grey netting.

To the slipper shoes shuffling for a fag.
To the button stretched to popping.
To the varicose veined legs of wisdom.
To the floral headscarf setting rollers of worry.

To the cards, horses and dogs in the bet of thrills.
To the provy cheque buying time.
To the sixpence for lost bite.
To the silence of a hungry child.

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