The convict with the rust coloured shirt and stained hands,
The four walls close in on him,
His thoughts close in on him,
So do his hunters.
The magician in the seedy bar,
Wearing his dead father’s suit,
Draped in chains and debts,
Dripping with insecurity.
The girl with the metalled eyebrow and mouth smeared red,
Who tries too hard, a little too hard,
She plays with the colours in her hair, on her body and on her canvas.
The funny guy, with his plaid button downs and too wide grins,
Who laughs along with the audience at his own racist jokes,
He sits in a room with blank eyes and a bottle in his hand,
The woman with snowy hair and starched sarees,
Who barks at the cretins speeding across the road on their motorcycles,
She opens musty albums and runs wrinkled fingers over sepia photographs.
The boy in the Pokemon pajamas,
Who listens to the drunken yells and raised voices downstairs with the same placidity,
Of one listening to the cricket scores on his drive home from work.
He sits at the window sill and looks up at a star-less sky,
The girl with the tangled hair,
Who always hugs the cushions on the ratty sofa,
Keeping an invisible force field of awkwardness around her,
Hiding from people she knows,
She hides in a world of yellowed pages and ink and serif fonts