To the invisible boy

His fringe is too long for him to see.
He lives in a cluttered flat.
In a sea of windows.
The flat is so full of belongings and bulk buys and boxed electricals and broken electricals and cleaning buckets and TV aerials that all that is left are the doors and corridors.
The fishes are his favourite.
Whiskery, prehistoric fish-tank fiends.
Fins fan like lamp post ads in the wind.

The people sweating in the sweat shop.
Red and thin from other people's dirty work.
Look slow and beautiful amongst rich cloth, through the curly grill.
The steam from the iron's chugg, chugg, chuggs is the old steam train.
It all hangs in the mist of a dream, waking him up.

He stretches and wriggles, immediately alert.
Wide eyed.
Charged as fine wire.
Spinning with desire.
Looking for the bogey man in the cloakroom.
Stepping through the kitchen to see what they're doing in the sink.
Find the discarded plane wing.
Negotiate the books.
Learn how to swim.