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
blade-scored hand;
and another thousand suns
it was impossible to bare.