A non smoker writes
A man lives down this alley - he's been there for weeks.
His beard is white and his djellaba grey.
He sells single cigarettes beside the Hôtel de la Paix
and he can only communicate in whispers and squeaks.
Most of his clients are working-class men
that pass him on the way to the betting shop.
In the light of the doorway I see them stop
for a bent Lucky Strike; then they pass on again.
I used to think that he went home at night,
but it seems that he's got nowhere else to stay:
from my bed inside the Hôtel de la Paix
I hear his high-pitched squeals among the hash-deals and fights.
And on such expressions is apathy built!
I walk past this guy some ten times a day,
he can't speak and I've got nothing to say.
And sometimes I write to mitigate guilt.
His beard is white and his djellaba grey.
He sells single cigarettes beside the Hôtel de la Paix
and he can only communicate in whispers and squeaks.
Most of his clients are working-class men
that pass him on the way to the betting shop.
In the light of the doorway I see them stop
for a bent Lucky Strike; then they pass on again.
I used to think that he went home at night,
but it seems that he's got nowhere else to stay:
from my bed inside the Hôtel de la Paix
I hear his high-pitched squeals among the hash-deals and fights.
And on such expressions is apathy built!
I walk past this guy some ten times a day,
he can't speak and I've got nothing to say.
And sometimes I write to mitigate guilt.