Luck

by Nick Moss

One of those days when hope seems like
A delusion you should have long since outgrown.

Al-Aqsa Hospital bombed for the 7th time
And all the tents in the camp of displaced people
Sheltering in its grounds, all the tents, they catch fire
And there’s a rain of ash, and a kid gives an interview
Talking about what it's like watching his mother and sister
Burn to death, and a volunteer surgeon says ‘It’s a horror show here.
Honestly, sometimes I feel like this is not real life,
That this can go on, and this degree of suffering
Is allowed to happen in this world.’
And what he means is that they are dying
While the world flicks through channels on the remote,
And where can you take the victims
With third degree burns on 80% of their bodies
When the ICUs are all just bomb-debris?

And we’re sitting in a pub in Chalk Farm and it’s about as atmospheric as a disused car park toilet and then in they come, a shouting, buzzing , pill-eyed, fast-chatting group, two couples, another friend and a Staffie, and I kind-of-vaguely recognize them, small time Somers Town dealers, Oxford Street shoplifters, good-hearted, would give you a snatched sandwich from Pret and a can of brew if you were goin hungry, all dressed up in knock-off Camden Market designer Amiri T shirts an Versace man-bags and ever-hopeful baggy shorts in mid-October an they bring an optimistic noise through the door with them and the Staffie runs round to every table lookin for love and crisps an one of the lads shows you how it can shake hands an all of a sudden the barman’s put on Sweet Female Attitude's ‘Flowers’ an the group’s up an dancin in the space between the bar an the door so that anyone comin in is automatically embroiled in the dancin an the rush of pop-garage charm, all sass and bassline, an then we’re all up, an then there’s somethin that runs through us just a kind of vibe, a winking thumbs-up joy of what would you call it? Working-class recognition? A look that says I know you an I’ve got you and we’re not finished yet, not done, not done, never beaten, we’ll be the revenant horde callin for justice from century to century til we run these streets like we own this space between bar and door, and yes life is shit, and yes there’s always someone face down boot stamping on their neck havin it worse but here mate have one of these an

With a little bit of luck
We can make it through the night