A double denim grand da
Blows the last blue
suckles of a cigarette butt
into the dank side of the street
sharp in the shadow of  white winter sun
Refreshed now after a fall of rain
 
Warm for November though but
not warm enough for his attire
The ground a slab
Under his swagger
 
He’s just out to get tobacco and bread
Sick of the beggars outside
The Centra make him feel
worse make him feel colder
 
He’s no change for them
He’s not sure they really want it
Looks like the bookies is getting
a face lift though
He crosses the road.