Some more of my poetry.

[reynardo]

I entered the Lord Mayor's Poetry competition - alas, didn't get anywhere. But for those interested parties, here is my entry, a socio-something or other comment on the addictions I see every day.


In the dark chill before sunrise the queue forms,
Breath steaming in the night air as need
And hunger and desperate, desperate compulsion
Pushes the queue further forward, pressed against the door
Awaiting their hit, their comfort, their surrogate.
Overnight withdrawal tremors merge with cold shivers
And the cigarettes lit as a temporary respite.
A passer-by strays too close and the leaders snarl,
Possessive of their position, fixated on their fix.
With the first light of the sun the doors open, a firm voice directing
The queue, creating order, nothing will be given out
Until people stop pushing. The mutter of voices quiets at her authority,
Her starched uniform and name badge her armour against their distress
And her power lying in the doses in front of her.

Slowly the line shuffles forward, each tending their card
With the indelible record of their history of addiction
Increased by one mark as she prepares their elixir.
Their faces, pale, grey, squinting in the light and wincing at the noise
That drifts in from the busy road outside, and echoes from the dispensary
With its stainless steel wall panels reflecting their eyes
Haunted and hollow, patient now that the end is near.
The first orders are processed, latex gloves
An unnatural barrier ordained by legislation
Protecting one from the other. Impersonal glances
And insincere smiles as the leaders preen,
Certain of their relief. She draws the liquid,
Dark, powerful, a legal intoxicant for their dependency.

They pause,
Breaths held as she calls the first recipient.
"Large Flat white, two sugars."