Sleepy in Splott

Hands sweating, slipping against plastic,

bump chaffing and weighing me down,

head bursting with heat and nappy-brain.

The wheels tik-tch tik-tch across cracks

of exhaust-dusty dog-shit pavements.

I cannot see her face, only the top of her head,

a tangled mat of wispy brown

and her hands clutching an empty bag

stained red with cherry juice.

As we pass doors and windows,

a slide-show of other people’s  troubles,

her fingers relax and crumpled paper

slips down between knee-grazed legs.

Asleep. But she will wake 

just as I lie on the sofa

and close my eyes.