Lights gone out,
eyes like busted windows
on derelict houses,
you live amid the clutter
left behind
by the squatters who,
over the years,
have stayed in you.

I see you standing at the bus shelter,
under a sky the colour of a bruise.
Fingers of wind tug at your clothes
like children,
and you ignore them.

All the things you've ever had
weren't half as good
as the idea of having them.

The haircut you got
didn't change your life
the way the glossy magazines said it would,
and your lipstick smudges
on the filter
of the cigarette you smoke
as you wait for the bus to come
through drizzle
and wind its way around
a damp suburban landscape
of estates and rain.

This wasn't the world
the infomercials
and celebrity columns sold you.

You ride the orbital,
in a seat stuck with chewing gum
and don't look out the windows
as they fog with other people's breath.

Do you ever wonder
why you always end up
back where you began?

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