This subway floor is cold and hard. Dry and the winter rain is pouring again. I have been moved on from the bus station warmth. The coppers do not bother me here. Old Fred died on the bench across from the hospital he called home. I have stuffed newspapers up my sleeves like he told me. I have enough loose change for a cup of tea. They do not always serve me and say I smell. Or I loose the money through the holes in my pockets. I like to hear the late-night trains and imagine I am cozy and warm. Snoozing after a hard day's work. Being someone important with a life to live. Some one clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. Going home on a bus the wife and kiddies. To a house in the suburbs with a lawn. Being someone who does not smell of urine and stale vomit. Some one who does not crave what is killing him. Someone who does not shiver and shake and beg. Young Jamie got beat up yesterday because some youths did not like his face. My old friends have all moved on or given up on me, they cross the road rather than speak. Tomorrow just another day and I have no idea what day it is.
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