Terrence SMITH


When will wind brush upon my brow,
and not chill my bones?
When will sweet, cheerful songs wake me,
not lull me to sleep?
When will beauty find me staring,
and not divide me?
But life is lost amongst ideals,
as living is just what it is,
a flicker between good and bad,
and for all its simplicity,
I exist.



Sometimes bored, lonely and lost
I look through endless shop sales,
consumer-candy on screens,
swing through city filled streets, mind-
-ing my way through bags full of
next year’s garbage,
joining the frenzied footsteps,
arms stiff as a corpse,
switched-on, logged-in, null and void,
watching the gabble in despair.

I wonder broke past windows
Mayfair silk; Bond Street brogues,
a dress, hung up, glamorous.
I finger the garments, and
met with stern looks, from well spent
gym muscle, guarding doorways
to luminous boutique fronts,
and leave with an empty heart.
Not much else lights up Winter's evening.