In The Late Hours Poem by jason turner

Pushing trollies in the middle of the night,
tramps crowd round the bonfire, the rattle of tins an the bins freezing cold ice litters the street light.
The clandecent politics of who owns the new shoe seen that very afternoon fool you fool me...
Pristine buckles rise from there trousers hard and clogged with the values of their fathers.
Card games at midnight a stetch at one then off to to berry the head an dream of his son
nights only begun twitch nightmares follow his tea early was hard to swallow.
awoken by the whistle of the wind the pied piper of the sky a duck sits by the lake by the bench a snuffle out of his bag an its back to sleep.

beneath the stars we all are stars