Alone in towns, he couldn’t find,
of all the many doors,
one that was right.
Adrift, he spoke to passers-by
who took one sideways look and hurried off.
There was no kindness in the street.
He searched in skips for this and that.
He thought discarded magazines
might tell him things that he’d forgot.
He’d linger hours by public offices
until policemen moved him on,
sometimes gently; sometimes not.
Believe me. People often stopped to say
he should be found – they weren’t sure how –
some place of refuge or retreat
where, calmed, he might conveniently stay
quite safe, quite still,
and out of sight.
– David Morphet 2015