Husks
A
gently-trembling hand
Reaches
across the beer-ringed table
To
grasp the glass half-empty
And
drain it to its meagre dregs
Before
slowly rolling out a cigarette
With
the last of this week’s tobacco
A
delicate thread of spittle traced along a line
To
seal gossamer-thin white paper
Then
tucking it behind the ear
For
later consumption
On
the way home
Through
derelict streets
Deep-set
wistful eyes
Survey
the scene unchanging
Staring
out through rheumy windows
Eking
out an eternity of endless days
A
waiting-room of dejected men
Rejected
and pensioned into retirement
Who
feel no ease or comfort
Nor
expect any better prospects
Sitting
wordless among the others
Staring
across the musty bar-room
Where
no-one talks today
Since
there’s nothing much to say
Ground
down by hopelessness
Arms
rendered thin and scrawny
Through
life-long labour
On
shop-floors and in building-yards
Which
sit now silent and abandoned
Worn
thin by years of heavy toil
Sinew-stretched
and weakened
Old
muscles worn and wasted
Proud-standing
veins show blue
Upon
the wrinkled, liver-spotted skin
Of
these exhausted men
Insides
hollowed out
Husks
of what used to be
No comments:
Post a Comment