Silver Despair

Something so cold and cruel
So damp and damning
To a vulgar extreme
Now harbours all my dreams
A bedsit, once was
Now home to a boy
With accent bluntly northern
And face slightly weatherbeaten

I watch every morning
From my glass tower eye sore
During 'bored' meetings
Though glimpses strictly fleeting
As he removes his splintered window
Straining sinew, tight tanned torso
Ears pierced, nose stud, tattoos a go-go

My mind drifts
To the fringes of the city
Where excited trepidation
Preceeds my bout of degradation

The phone re-affirms my misery
Despair at a silver anniversary
'Sir, your wife is on line three'