Soup Of The Day Poem by Alistair Graham

It’s 4 AM. No,
it’s not it’s
4 degrees and dark outside
The window is open and I can’t
feel my fingers or my cigarette
The dials on the dashboard are
lit up like Barry’s Amusement Arcade
It’s nearly 8 AM

Buses are everywhere,
loaded with school children
Baby chicks in rectangular sheds
under screaming lights, force fed, for
someone else’s table

I’m finished
with the cigarette. I breathe the last smoke
out of my lungs into the morning air
The traffic is fuming
on the Newtownards Road
The light from the car dials,
the amber, red, green
on the traffic light poles
burn the back of my eyes. Jesus
I’m really in the mix; in
the soup of the day
where I’ll sit on the hot hob,
simmering,
with all the vegetables
until 5 PM