A story Lived Here – Vincent Edward Manda

It was worse

Than watching that last twenty pound note

Meant to tide you over coming weeks

Fall out of your pocket

And float in hot, flushed air

Signalling an oncoming

Piccadilly line train

As you put your oyster away.


Much worse

Than watching trains

Pull away

To reveal your piece of paper

Turned into Hors D’eouvre

Served to a rat

In that exclusive restaurant

Between live tracks.


Worse than

Walking hungry

Past smells of

Friday night kebabs and quid burgers,

Sober, right through boulevards lined

With music, frenzied dancers and booze.


It was almost as bad

As walking into the

Darkened, silent house

Clinging to a fading scent

Emanating from dusty shelves;


An essence particular to her perfume,


That faint memory dwelling in a home

After all the books

Are closed.


his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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