It's not unusually cold here,
that good pain and the sad rain,
and king st at dusk,
and the old burying ground.
Wrought iron fences rotting defenceless
the the grasping cold,
the silver day.
Every fall she whispers,
'Were you a dog on a short chain,
or just sitting there tapping the noose?'

Young man's got chains aplenty
shallowly limping through the cracks in the north end,
like his clothes are melting,
ready to shed a baggy buy a rim or something,
I don't mean to sound callous or anything,
but there's something too obvious about this
shabby form,
texting.
Good tattoos though, quality work.