Tent

Rubbing hard on crusty eyes
footsteps and voices nearby,
the sun already streaming in and
the smell of bacon wafting over,
piecing things together slowly;
in my grimy clothes I lay
with a chronic lack of saliva.

A sleeping bag covering a girl,
bar the head and pale bare shoulder,
open mouthed, hair curled across her,
fresh faced and serene beside,
in the light now dropping through,
not stirred from her sleep but sweaty,
I left her to her dreams exiting quietly,
wanting to stay but unable to,
stumbling over debauchery;

fag ends, baggies, vomit, empties,
a cup of rancid ash on burnt grass,
playing cards strewn with shit scraps
in splayed polystyrene takeaway trays,
screaming kids with pushy parents,
communal bogs and a hose ten feet off
to sear away the sheen of gear my eyes amass
when days elapse between sleep and wake –
the remnants of my decrepit life,
bits and pieces and loose ends,
increment by increment,
since the day I woke in that tent.

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