Poem for the helpless nowhere man 

Darkness again, your spirit hits the turf 

where a street side lamp turns your face 

to a purple ghost 

And you wallow in your pseudo-intellectual 

mumbo-jumbo. The last rumination burns 

your alcoholed throat 

You eye a shopwindow banishing materialism 

Yet you cherish your two-layered Costa Rican timepiece 

Somewhere in your heart you’re clutching at little things 

Your laptop computer, your news page. A safari suit 

languishing in the cupboard 

A six-year Swiss pen, a book of amateur poetry, 

commas and colons, John Updike’s first novel, 

a nap after fried fish 

You stumble on the pavement from a diatribe by friends 

And then your spirit takes a considerable beating 

You fumble with the pillows and find the space 

To rest the confusion of an impotent self