On the way to work
by Ben Ashwell
Sunshine dances in flecks from the Thames,
shining on bare chests and red faces
as the perfume of roll-ups and sweet canned cider
floats from a beer garden nearby
At the bus stop, way past the river where
the sun doesn’t reach,
a man’s hunched silently like
a cold foetus next to the Job Centre but I
walk on
because I lose my mind if I’m not going somewhere
An ice cream van stops on the corner
without lights or a tune and drives on beyond
the children clamped to their prams
Next to work there’s dried vomit on the entrance
to Woolworths – the sign reads Olort -
and I walk through the air conditioned doors of
Sainsbury’s,
hang up my jacket to start my shift