Stubbed Out

The ashtray streets sit empty,

idle,

gentrification shuttered

in abandoned alcoves,

anaemic grass trembling

towards the sun

from piss damp soil,

while the high street ghosts

find dry beds, fresh towels

and mandated generosity,

handed out by

cautious masks

and gloves

and flinching fingertips,

to those who slept

in dead angles,

grounded by sheets,

covered only by

the thin veil of charity,

warmed only by

the bitter taste of hoarded dog-ends.

There is a chance for more change

than can fill their paper cups,

but our hopes will dash against the rocks,

drown in oil futures and

suffocate under eviction’s weight,

stubbed out against the pavement,

as their embers wisp away.

Just two men slept rough

in the shivering heart of Cardiff

not two weeks ago,

and in the dull, grey dawn

of our hopeful tomorrow

all those who knew shelter, briefly,

will kiss the gutters goodnight again.