Tomorrow it will be the rain My smile is rare, it’s a spear to pierce your flesh – a stick across your head, a dagger on the street with glint and tip and edge – sharp to slice – but now disguised as frown across my face that’s hidden in another life. I don’t say thanks as you drop a coin or if you smile as if you’d like to help, pat your pockets with a shrug then walk away. Your conscience clear, at least you saw me sitting here, at least you recognized my fright and didn’t pass as if the night had left me a transparent space of air. Your conscience isn’t my concern, you’re anonymous in every sense, you are my transience, in crowds of coats and trouser legs hidden in the blur that walks straight past – consumed by jobs and politics, you are the pain I’ve witnessed, to me your life does not exist. My smile is rare – tomorrow it will be the rain.
benjamin cusden
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