I worked very briefly for the News & Star in Carlisle,
Day in court, sipping flat coke while
petty criminals walk in and out;
merge into one teenager.
At lunch I sit with reporters
who talk about ‘crazies’ and send
them letters about God.
In the evening I walk through Carlisle
town to the bed and breakfast, curl up
on the bed and flick through battered
‘Nineteen eighty four’ that my dad
The sun, it goes down and I swear,
I can hear the clocks striking thirteen.