Woken at 07:45 hours,
this day as every for the past
God-knows-how-many mornings.
He stopped counting months ago.
Familiar shouts and clattering, steel on steel.
He’s never been in such constant company.
If he can’t see them, he can hear them.
If he cant hear them, he can smell them.
Two hundred and fifty God-forsaken souls
bouncing off the concrete walls.

And yet, never has he been so lonely.
In the middle of this swirl of
doing, coming and going,
he plays the game of acquaintance,
unpleasant pleasantries exchanged
on the landings when custom,
advantage and survival says he must.
But he dreams of solitary, a box just for him.
A place of quiet, or quiet as it gets.

Lonely for solitude and spiritual guidance,
gently closing the door while all others slam.
Lonely for recognition, his currency no use
where his is now, he trades in
sensitivity, not noise and bravado.
Lonely for connection, the true self
hidden, protected by ever thickening
walls of stoicism and cynicism from
which the heart may never escape again.

Bells ring, doors open.
Saturday association, and solitude
wishes will have to wait.