"Judging"

Here I Am
Sat on the fifth floor
Of the Royal Festival Hall
Majestically relaxed

In a comfy settee.

One of my favourite

Spots in London.

Home of the Saison Poetry Library.

Whoever he may be…

I’m no expert you know.

Nobody knows me here.

I am just one

Stranger among many.

There are no

Twelve men and good

Here it is me

And me alone

Who is judge and jury.

Sockets by the window

For MY laptop

Stolen by YOU

Selfish old man

Head gently nodding

To the left

Moving like clockwork

Powered by

Your silent snores.

You fucking selfish old git.

It seems this

Is where

Old people come

To hibernate.

Man to the right

Trying to get through

A Jo Nesbo.

Nemesis.

His or mine?

Keeping on reading

Inbetween a bit

Of shut-eye.

We’re not the sort

For power-napping.

Drowsiness caused

By the lack of a life

And these saggingly comfy

Low leather sofas.

So far, so good.

Better than I have at home.

Which is where

I am hiding from.

Desperate to

Find tranquillity

And anonymity

From the reality

Of life within

My own four walls.

Yes, sit down

Come and join

The party…

In our heads.

Staring…

Trying not to

Silently judge

But we all are.

I can see it

In your eyes.

As the newcomer

Takes off

His homeless shoes

To rest his weary

Sockless feet.

Dumping all three

Of his meagre bags

In front of you and me.

But not before he’d rescued

His precious Sunday dinner

Of a can of Fosters

From within

To fill the void inside.

I could be wrong but…

Your green jacket

Light but practical

Complementing your sweatshirt

Adorned with the stars and stripes

With matching black

Adidas tracksuit bottoms.

Not quite clean

Though neither of

The great unwashed style…

Yet, hinting,

To me at least

That you had

Some sort of

‘Crisis at Christmas’

If you get my drift

As you drift.

But what do I know?

And what do they

Think of me?

The simple answer is…

Nothing.

Here, on floor five

Of the Festival Hall,

I am a nobody.

I blend in

So seamlessly

It is untrue.

But this is the reality.

A story of my life.

Surrounded by

What might have been

Or what is to come.

Only fate can decide.

Who am I to judge?

Dulwich Poet 3^rd January 2016

( I wrote this, as I was sat down on one of the comfy armchairs on the 5^th floor of the Festival Hall, just relaxing & finishing off a book, before returning it to the adjacent Poetry Library, on the same floor.)