I peer from the gutter darkness of drink,

With envious eyes at those on the footpath of sober,

The duck in the cloud’s flies at the fluff,

Chased by jet planes vapour trails,

Like bullets from a rifle.

Watched by envious eyes,

I look up from this gutter

At the angular sides of another 4×4,

Smelling its owners’ fancy soap and perfume,

With envious nostrils.

I look out from this wardrobe,

Past my father’s suits,

With envious eyes and wonder,

Just who invented pockets?

© 13/04/2019 rogleach