My arse is soaked from sitting on the metal

for what feels like a fucking eternity.

It doesn’t look like much goes on in these parts,

especially not at this time of night,

but beggars can’t be choosers as they say. 

 

A tram pulls in on the opposite platform,

full to the brim with laughter and togetherness, 

the kind that only outsiders can exude. 

But then in a flash it’s gone, and I’m left 

wondering how to occupy my time

 

which is spent in the company of strong winds,

bricks which haven’t been touched for many years,

the sounds of cars passing by,

the sign which reads 30,

and these ageing shoes.

 

As I try to find deeper meaning in these things,

I puff my cheeks and stare blankly at the clock, 

asking myself if she’s happier now,

in a place many miles from this - 

my Saturday night dwelling.