Shop Doorway
by Sid Williamson

Cold and wet, rainwater drips from above dark the shop doorway.
The filthy palm of an outstretched hand shakes violently.
Curled up in a filthy sleeping bag is the shadow of a once proud man.
His drug ravaged body still bears the scars, war wounds from distant times.
Ten years a serving soldier wounded in action in some far away land.
Memories of comrades killed and blown to bits still haunt his dreams.
Drugs more drugs, he has to escape his thoughts his dreams himself.

 A dark man in a smart suit steps out of his car, and sniffs the cold night air.
Smiling broadly he remembers how easy it was for him when he arrived here.
How those with bleeding hearts fell over themselves to help him stay.
And now by selling drugs to local lowlife he was a rich man with a whore wife.
He sniggers as he thinks about the ruined man who begs all day to by his drugs.
Why should I care? He thought, the man is white, and was injured fighting us.
So his side won, yet here I am a rich man while he begs money to pay me.

 The streets are empty now except for the man in the doorway, it’s freezing tonight.
High on drugs he curls up in his sleeping bag forgetting the past for another night.
The dark man in the suit is home now warm in his robe, sitting on a comfy armchair.
He’s counted the money it’s been a good night and after a hot bath he drifts away.
Its morning now and the shopkeeper arrives, come move it, I have to open my shop.
But the sleeping bag doesn’t move, he prods him and still he doesn’t move.
Blue flashing lights illuminate the street, another old soldier died of cold, rest in peace

 

Another day another new suit, the dealer winds down the window of his nice new car.
Where is he? He mutters to himself. Where is that filthy old junkie today?
From the shop doorway comes a shopkeeper, the angry looking man approaches.
If you’re looking for Bill, I found him this morning dead in my shop doorway, he said.
Without blinking the dealer winds up his window and drives away.
It doesn’t matter he thought, plenty more where Bill came from. Ironic but sadly true.
For this is Britain the land of milk and honey, for everyone except the British that is.