There are two bins outside the train station,
one by each entrance. Or exit, depending on how
you look at where it is you’re going. I’m stood
at the traffic lights, my thin boots are letting me
feel the tiles of bumps made to tell people
where the curb ends. There’s a big poster
stuck to the side of the railway bridge to my right
with a number to call if you want to end your life.
When it feels like no one is looking out
for each other any more I think about
the little sticker on the back of my jelly beans
for me to re-seal the packet, or notebooks
with the ribbon bookmark sewn into the spine.
It’s all I can do.

© Carl Burkitt 2021