Streets.

I see hopeless men on the streets,
bottles in their eyes,
words on their tongues
twisted in bitterness.

What will I become
when I've left university's arms
and the teet
of academia?

Will that warmth and prospect
dissipate
like a disturbed smoke haze?

Will I be trundling 'round
in trainers, brown
leather,
unkempt hair,
with a denim heart?

These hopeless men
are poets of few words
and their hands
seek rough surfaces
in search of soft patches.

All the while,
I daren't look into my own hopelessness:
there might be a small man in there
clapping in the cold
ready to meet my eyes.