As it Lays

quiet morning light
falls on old retail signage
quietly fading

In the Park

on a bench
an old man lies
hand acradle
but nothing inside

Nightjack

The hollow car park scrapes underfoot

its darkness reflected in each puddle

I rush through

but stop

  briefly

for one sound that tells me its story 

eight hours done – 

I barely utter ten words

to anyone

    and the stale taste of morning comes

                with a cold listless light.

        the front doors yawn wide and

                a breath from outside lifts an

         ethanolic blossom through –

the sickening perfume of the

   desperate rising birds.

Cooper Kalamat writes about to the underside of contemporary millennial life. He currently lives in his hometown of Bournemouth in the UK.