I’ve done this before,

Hours on a step, bag and bottle,

Book, cigarettes and the urge to urinate.

 The time presses on me like an injured albatross,

Hanging and hovering in the air.

 Cars rumble and screech their noisy traffic vibes,

I’m a homeless man in 2001.

 Electronic surveillance points planted around,

Obviously controlling us.

When will my time end?

Today, or in ten thousand days?

As the sun gazes down on me, Christ compels

Passive and silent in the background.

 Sure, these steps aren’t best suited for lounging,

Terracotta bricks.

Bitumen and painted lines are in front of me.

Swamp grasses bloom on the side.

The world ignores me, as it ought to,

After all, who would spare a dollar?

Little do they know I am the wealthiest man in this city,

Not profane perverted or imbecile.

But they don’t know that – they assume I have all these vices.

Not a wonder that the prophet is not recognised

In his home town.