Dirty Pretty

basically childhood

She wrote out her heart,
in cloud ink on the sky,
as if she were entitled.

She lived as though
She believed in ghosts.
She'd pretend that,
beyond the streetlights,
and the sweet, rotting stench
of the air she breathed,
cut with the leaf-crushed
scent of autumn,
somewhere there was hope for her.

The old café,
so contaminated by her fingerprints
that it became home.
Where strangers turned into relatives
without informed consent;
in fact, without signing
anything at all.

She eclipsed the sun,
Or, she thought she did.
Between brackets,
ampler than the block of flats
where they lived off bread crumbs and early sunsets,
and the memory of the sea.
Long dried, she thought,
yet to be born from a flood.

In the moment of hope,
watched on black and white tv,
those ragged grays
were everything to her.

Reviews

[Chris]

I hear the echoes of a person living with the imprints of times past in a now reality. Walking those streets NOW (same as then - sigh) - only as little changes as the powers-that-be OR real people allow to exist or empower. Being hungry for real isn't about choosing what to eat or a when - it's about HAVING nothing to eat.

[John the Baptist]

An interesting character sketch here. A lot of interesting images. I get the picture of one raised in straitened circumstances who longed for future happiness. The last verse may be the key to the poem.

[kelsi :)]

Thank you so much for reviewing my work! It certainly does not go unnoticed! :D