The fuck-up kids slouch past my window
from their morning walk back to the upper wards.
I don’t know what they do there
under their whispey bleached-blown hair,
in bright-studded leather jackets and pink pants.
Probably not much if this place
is anything to go by,
but, as they pass,
one offers me an outstretched
and another thousand suns
it was impossible to bare.