Refusing to capitulate
(to futile, though well-meaning words
of the seemingly sapient,
caparisoned on some high horse),
fumbling fingers and thumbs fondle
urban treasure; tobacco strands
salvaged from the discarded dimps
of those who leave a longer stub.
‘Crumple’ covers all the angles;
Oxfam attire, through wrinkled skin,
to that misshapen reefer.
No purse required to join this club.
Tincture (prescribed to soothe the wounds
sustained surviving outdoor life),
dispensed from council tip hip flask;
one hundred proof panacea,
completes the pattern of decline
initiated by the glitch
that failed to recognise the signs
and doff its cap to ‘life’s a bitch’.