A Better Bloke

Here I am,
you opposite I
and I in the likeness.
"A better bloke." He mouthed it too but the noise didn't come out.
I left the public urinal.

Another day and nothing lines the stomach and the wetness touches my feet through shoe, through sock
and the days pass in moments of disenchantment.
There are appointments, with the corner of Prince Street, with the demeaning request for money, with the price of my pride.

I take coins to fill a void, to warm up a night
and what else could I do?
Buy a rug for the dining room
or carnations for the wife
or diesel for that car?
No.

The wind blows a heavy one and I lust after better,
the envy is strong here
whilst peering after couples, the congregations of rebellious teenagers unaware of the dangers that may face them.
I want to choke on it,
lean back and be an enjoyment to the flies and other insects.
I want to choke on my own disrepair.

Tried to get a work placement,
walked right up to an apprentice agent.
She asked my age
and later went on to say I wasn't at the right stage in my life to be on their books.
She gave me one of those looks that make you want to remove the eyes.

I tried not to care.
Tried to get a job in one of those eateries,
any shift, listed off my GSCEs, listed off my ideas for the future.
No one replied
and I sat for another few days wishing to choke on it.

There's not enough money in a day to top oneself,
and not enough trust anyone would find me
and, frankly, not enough drive to do it.
Always been a quitter,
that's what my Dad said.
"You could be a better bloke."