Intervals
They wait for the interval,
welcome night in distinct stages,
ever green and ever lost,
listen to the dark empty out.
We sit as kings, survey it all,
while others fish for scraps
in bins so tall you could fall in;
they don’t see you, snug in bed.
This rotting smell we recognise
in the air, pressing on our faces,
entering our bones by osmosis.
We’re not immune to all this.
The happenings beyond our doors
still echo when we close them;
all those scenes don’t disappear
in waves ‘til they’re nothing at all.
The man still combs the refuse
searching for a bite to eat.
The fox still runs the gauntlet,
street to street, crossing cars.
This is the true nocturne, waking
as we sleep, living as we dream.
Poverty creeps in at the edges
and we ignore it at our peril.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 3, 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)