Breaking up

in London for an alley
and the fear of starvation
while i wept alone in a happy house
full of food and love

"You'll be ok," I told her
once, but we both know
I don't know anything
about anything. She pretended
to listen, but like every smile
on the poetic dead
i saw the grim tattoo
of panic and envy for like-love.

After she walked away
i heard a homeless man tell her
about a comfortable bit of cardboard
under a long stone bridge
down in Gloucester by the pub.

She smiled for real then.