at home

down among the broken souls I used to be a king but having had my moment in the joyless sunlight dwindling some midweek afternoon in November among the flapping garbage I returned unremarked upon to the streets, shoeless and murmuring and staring for reason in the windows of the shops there. I couldn’t go home. There was a home – a place I lived with a kind of a bed and a kitchen with no food in it, the dog ends like drowned flies in the stained tin sink, a toilet cavelike with limescale, a few books – but home was where they knew where to find me. The  crowds, the bells, the looming church, the judgement beyond the mouldering viel, waiting for me, at home.

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