Litter

I was born ‘cos I wasn’t aborted,
that’s how I used to think,
kicking empty cans down dark alleys
as I was waiting to score,
waiting to score
yet again.

And there’s a shivering
inside my jacket,
that I think belongs to me,
as I splish splash through
dirty black puddles
walking down London streets.

I’m a screwed-up
cigarette packet
soggy paper ‘round cold
fish and chips,
the discarded remains of desire
all but litter on your streets.

©2006 P.A.Levy
First published 2008 by Hanging Moss Journal