From the road, I saw a man,
wrapped in a puffer jacket
nursing a cold can of the poison
he’d come to rely on – or
that was my interpretation
as the wind bit his cheeks
and ‘Police Station’ loomed above him
in noir neon.
I took him as one to linger,
in hope of a fluorescent saviour
shrouded in paper work and glowing blue.
The man with legs crossed then uncrossed
stayed as I left, tumbling around the roundabout,
unable to shake his wrinkled hands
from my head, heart and the beer can.
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WP #9: linger
Link your response to this prompt in the comments.
