The Plain

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

9pm; the winter darkness has checked-in,
keeping watch over several hundred metres
of disillusioned, half-deserted concrete plain.
Everyone here is foreign in their own way.
Students of the local uni attach themselves
to this angular fragment of the city.
Coming from all over, an invasion spawned
from mass-marketing campaigns.
Eastern Europeans, mostly Polish, with their shops
selling food items beyond my pool of culinary knowledge,
adding colour to the edge of my world.
But, it’s the local drunks I find the hardest to decipher,
speaking a language I will never learn.

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