Flyover (May)

The flyover is roof for the homeless. Rain won’t get in. They would rather be somewhere else and once they were. The pillars of the roof are tall as a cathedral. Upturned wooden crates keep the wind away. A ripped mattress is comfy covered with plastic sheets. Bags and empties will come in handy. On hoardings and cyclone wire they hang their finds. A supermarket trolley carries all worldly goods. Anyone with a car crosses the roof in seconds. Anyone with money. Down here on the floor there’s no sign of police. Even the foxes may rest their heads tonight.