Familiar

There it is again:

That yawn of poverty,

That call of ‘no’,

That empty bed,

That cold street,

That sickly feeling, bilious –

No thanks. All too familiar.

That sideways glance,

That shrugged shoulder,

That quick release of a handshake,

That feeling you get in here –

No thanks, all to familiar.

You become somehow numb,

You become cold and brittle,

Steeled, hollow, a rugged landscape,

Something somewhat hillier.

Please, take my hand, make it unfamiliar.

(possibly 24th November 2010)  © Jamie Zubairi

With thanks to Sioned Jones, Madame Charlatan Arcati and her Caravan of Poetry evenings in Clapham.