I like people with scars, hit by life
4 or 5 kids, floppy livers, bruised hearts
hair burnt yellow by dye, I like people
with safety-pinned glasses, people
who wheel vinyl shopping bags, yarn
at corners. I like people who wear three day's growth,
cotton dresses, sloppy cardigans, torn jumpers, who do not own
answering machines, mobile phones or house alarms.
I like people who have never been to a gym, who don't jog
who don't own a Walkman, people who ride bikes
because they have to, people who $2 shop
who buy things they need in Saint Vincent's. I like people
who cook in, serve in, own, eat in
run-down cafes with laminex tables,
where they serve raisin toast, poached eggs,
cholesterol-coated bacon, where they let the lady
who breathes through the hole in her throat, just sit.
I like people who relax at weekends with slabfuls of beer,
I like people with big tits, high blood pressure, but drink,
people who hold up untreated varicose veins, people
with unfixed bunions, arthritis, their bones grinding,
worn rough from walking, knocked-about people,
people you see every day in the better suburbs.

© John West