the train sighs home into his station.
This city is a concrete cradle,
a hard bed for dreams.
The stars rarely reach as far as the suburbs,
but tonight, between the clouds, a few of them rattle slowly past.
Jealous of some plane's vapour trail,
Of those lofted passengers thundering off into the night,
He passes through the pub, and the careful ambition of its punters,
Who drink up, and up, and up.
There is hope there, if he wants it;
the fresh page need not be a threat,
that girl at work is looking forward to his call.
For now, though,
he teeters at the top of the wind-whipped street
And cannot think of the world he deserves.