The Drunks

They start to appear, blobs of moss

clinging to rock. Then you realise

you’ve passed by so many times,

wonder who else can see them.

Fresh bruises, cuts, florid skin

splash colour on the London drab.

You recognise hierarchy: old guard

decorated lividly, guttural.

Lower ranks hang on every growl,

and new recruits - still in mufti -

could be Salvationists

but for the can gripped like a rifle.

Not afraid but unnerved by that one

who stares just too long,

you wrestle with ugliness.
This could be your call-up.