Stuart Nunn

Beggar

Shag-haired, he wears his dirt like a uniform,
hobbles between red-stopped cars, hand out,
pathetically cupped.

The girl in front gives a rand or two,
but he argues, reaches in gut-clenchingly,
to stroke her hair.

And that's enough for her.
She flinches for the window button, shouts,
maybe, a warning.

And now he comes for us, in our locked
white hire car. Let him not kick the door, and please
let the lights change colour.

Sulphur


He opens the box of matches, and the crater
fills his nostrils with isotopes of burning.

Slowly he closes it, rattles and pockets it.
All day the smell persists and he treasures it,
carries his mortality in this convenient form.

"Got a light, mate?" Shielding the flame
from the tricky wind, he studies the stranger's face.

Lit from this alien angle, he sees
where it is coming from, tastes death
and cherishes it on his tongue.