His bag emptier with every street.

Socks sagged around his ankles.

The lever in, slip, release

over and over.

Odd numbers, even numbers, rusty

hinges. Wind battered gates that 

knocked their whole lives. Seeing 

the sun spread itself over his daily

plot. The snip of a latch, clock turn

handle, heave the hinge-less, walk

through the gate-less, unbolt

the formal. Listening to the barking

and cawing, the snap of car lock.

Taking it all in his stride, the passing

of the unknown. Wearing away 

his years until he himself slips 

and drops. 

Gareth lives in Wales. He is an aspiring writer who has his first collection out in 2018 by futurecycle.