Smiles From The Grateful

The mute in his cell is dog bark coughing.
Junkies file into the toilets, shy and apologetic
or hungry with curses.
There’s the smell of cask wine and a war of bad radio.
Blood spotted cotton balls clog the drains. 
Tiny cigarette carcases disintegrate unfiltered.
Food scabs the concrete.
An ex-con complains that his city sleeping possie
has been disturbed by burglars.
“It ain’t right” he tells us.
An old hooker limps out like coffee dregs,
her once sold beauty gone like dust.
The delivery man is cancer thin,
lives on exhaust and trusting kindness.
The key code is 1937, so pogrom appropriate,
everything is locked down.
I sweep and clean like an old trustee.
Smiles from the grateful
and the piano music from the church hall
remind me it’s not prison.