You don’t mean to end up here —
just a turn too soon,
distracted by phone
Boarded windows,
a bus shelter sagging under last week’s rain,
plastic bags tangled in fence wire
like some tired bunting.
The brickwork blackened,
rooms full of faded stock,
waiting for a world that’s moved on.
A woman smokes by a doorway,
her face a shade the sun has given up on.
No point in staring —
you walk on,
hands in pockets,
pretending you belong somewhere else.
Still, the mind
takes its snapshots —
poorly composed,
unwanted,
impossible to throw away.
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