For the ones who stagger drunk
down dim lit alleyways, 3 in the morning
past graffiti-stained walls
through piss scented subways
those who blow smoke rings at the moon.
Those blown from one disaster to the next
like yesterday’s news blown in the wind
for the ones rocking back and forth
cold sweat running down their spines
head in hands, worried for their sanity.
For those crouching in shop doorways
asking for spare change
from passing strangers
smoking cigarette ends off the concrete pavements
eating leftovers from supermarket bins.
For the addicted and the abused
for those scoring pills and powders
those in the aftermath of the fight
bruised grazed and believing the lies
circled by the redness of tear-stained eyes.
For those hanging around dingy flats and broken homes
with nowhere else to go
for the dealers, for the whores
for the things that brought you here
whether you were rich or poor.
For the losing, for the lost
for battles fought at the greatest cost
for the countless ways you’d wave goodbye
for the countless reasons a new-born cries
you’re still worth the fight to survive.