Sunday, 17 May 2020

The Long Walk Home

There was no football today. 
Time is now a prize to be eaten.

Alive, are the curtain twitchers, 
ounting cold coffee cups, bars on

heaters in rhythm with the vidi printer.
I'm lucking past indoors, where I know,

inside feels like winter. A porch. 
She keeps her head down there.

I’m past fixed set frowns. A torch. 
He hides his record in there, where

mat painted post is scared of itself 
and she is simply laying down.

The 'ee!! Iife eh? commonality adverts,
as if life was Coronation St. 

Crumb confinement for solitary some.
There's somehow sick, on this beat. 

A crouching builder Slavic saddened,
a man fills an already full bin.

Magpies on chips and dogs over
three-legged loved cats, fight. 

I chew through garage lands where
Tesco keeps the tree bag flying,

Jason keeps Lambrettas, 
a geezer kept his sleeper, 

until yesterday. His bird will sing.
I'm past bawdy bars, behind boarded bars, 

where they knock, but they don't ring.
No more time, gentlemen please.

We're still 1 up, before 5 minutes of extra
and 5 down, after 1 minute of closing.

Time is tight, round here.

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