Open Mic Night
Outside the cats lay lifeless,
tenth spent.
Street kids invest
ungodly hours
wondering if home
is asleep enough
to return yet —
Inconclusive,
their hearts sink
as the chip shop light's dim.
The last one sunken as
even his phone charge
rejects him.
Oil poured
down the drain,
the smell of vinegar
finds a new salt
in the sea air.
Stumbling from the station pub
a stray in a stetson does his best
to reel off a soliloquy
which was born somewhere between
9/11 and a damaged heart.
One by one — a sequence of
single hung shutters
put him back in his place,
a solitary mouthpiece in the dark.
Inside it's battle of the beards,
placebo folk.
A platform for undiscovered
talent to show their worth
Some do.