The lone wolf of Soho

Thinking of long ago, of soho nights, and basement drinks, of sheltering from rain at 3am; with tear stained cheeks and memories of new friends that owe me drinks; I’ll never meet again.

And now it’s years gone by my tears have dried, the basements not as frequent now and strangers are left in peace to drink alone.

Well now and then the lone wolf returns inside to drag me into Holburn doorways to find homeless concert pianist’s who fell from grace and cling to hope; as they cling to their hostel place, along with the scoundrels but also people who care for others without reason.

And then I venture underground, every one is still as ice as they travel on their lonely way, a hundred feet below and a million lonely souls play at life through a tired transport network revolving around a Victorian dream that now forgets to say hello and how are you, and look each other in the eye; for fear of communicating God forbid a Northerner with things to say, because he’s suffered only a day, and years will wear him down; he’ll soon be looking at the ground when asked for change or someone may be needing help but he won’t see, because he needs the help as well, because he’s close to cracking with his life on the corner of a page he’s been reading for ten years or more. Tbc

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