In

In

In

(1947)
 
In Liverpool, you walk the dock for hours
In your bag, a box of dominoes, a pair of brogues
In the street, a little girl tut-tuts at you
In your belly, worry rising like the wind, but hold it boy, just hold it
In the tenement house, a bed you swap with other men
in shifts, you pass the afternoons
in dreams – the rooster cawing on the fence, your sisters twisting hands, the smell the smell of      uh
In England, you’re in England
In the shop, a rock of last week’s bread you carry home
in snow, your slipping soles and god knows how the world went white like this
In the street, a woman tutting, crossing over
In your pockets, nothing but a letter, flimsy blue
In the labour queue, ten men ahead the same as you - you’re in, you’re
in, no, no, some other fellow’s in, new worry rising like a wind
In the glass, a thinner picture of your face
In your dreams, a yuka moth, a shell, the sea
In the back room of a pub, a cheer, the pint glass clunks                just hold it boy, just
In the makeshift ring, a shirtless man who looks like you, but something
in your pocket, something in your pocket
In the air, your bare fists flailing, his bare fists cracking on your ribs, your cheeks, your lip  split
in two, a glug of blood, your blood, oh
in that gloomy room, a single bulb above the ring where you are sinking like a puppet
in his arms, in his arms