Ordinary Brian
Middle-class, built on misery.
At eighteen, already ruptured…
inward collapse, outward scatter,
spectators departing once the show went dark.
He came offering walls.
Box room. Four sides. Shelter
measured in square feet, paid
by the state per broken body housed.
Ex‑con beside. Alcoholic across.
trash, he called it, casually,
counting what the government paid
per damaged head.
Ordinary Brian, if you saw him.
Beamer in the drive. Doonfoot address.
Middle‑class gloss,
over state‑funded flesh.
I took the room.
What other choice was there,
orphaned, homeless,
two weeks from the street.
Don't ask the math:
how many box rooms equal a BMW,
how many ruptured eighteen-year-olds
buy suburban comfort.
Entrepreneur, he called himself.
Parasite.
Not entrepreneur.
Lower than the junkies he housed –
they at least admitted
what they fed on.
Leech in good shoes.
Ordinary Brian.
Thriving.
- UpsilonA