Big Issue
In this sodden summer one day of heat.
Glitter of sun on the glass of shops,
a flurry of gulls over roof-tops
as tourists file from station to beach
over the crossing there by the lights
where the magazine-seller always stands.
He props up the bins with a brotherhood of friends; while
a scrawny girl with hennaed plaits
hauls at the string of her questing dog,
offers her baby her fag-end to maul.
"Big Issue, Big Issue" the listless call.
Yards off, sprawled like a log
the body of a youth on the burning path.
He's there a long time. No-one stops.
The ants divide as if for a rock,
then reform their ranks. The harsh
sun beats down. What's it about?
Is he drunk, drugged, is it his heart?
Only one Samaritan leans to find out.
The boy sits up. He begins to shout,
to wave his arms. People stop and stare
"What's it to you. What you looking at?"
Concern by the bins. "He mustn't do that.
He'll be sectioned." They've been there.
A wailing ambulance causes a stir.
The stretcher slides in sweet as a drawer.
As the doors shut on this small sad drama
the insects choreograph themselves once more.
The seller resumes his sibilant coo,
"Big Issue. Big Issue, Big Issue."
