So you walk up this morning street, ignoring the losers
in the pub at this unearthly hour.
Fourth smoke in about thirty minutes
'coz you’re afraid.
Afraid of the people,
afraid of the street and the lure of the shops.
Afraid of losing control. But most of all
afraid he’ll say,"You’re loony. You
need hospital “. Past Aldi and JBs. Past
the Lebanese hairdresser’s.
Afraid it’ll be months
again before you taste freedom.
Walking in the gate you’re shakey
and can hardly light another cigarette.
Sitting in the waiting room there’s
Mary and two patients
—sicker than you surely —
Your mind bombards you
with ”what’s" and “surelys”.
You sit waiting.
awaiting your fate.