I’m passing folks on the street hugging
Creases where shadows cling to house fronts
And spread wealth; all shunning the swelter
Of the sun’s lunch time flush whilst whispering
Details of their weekend adventures:
He said, she did, we saw, they fled, and
Every gesture left in vulgarity’s inventory
Is brought out to escort the stories.
The shop clerk is as work shy as ever as
I step through the door though he quickly
Picks up a price gun and looks for something
To shoot, and appear busy, but I don’t pay
His wages so it’s all sweet to me.
It must be the only outlet around without
A closed circuit camera lurching from
Side to side and searching for the trust
In us, tempting its ineptness, but it’s never
Been burgled so it must be immune to
The local tomb raiders or maybe it’s
Because it’s the only off licence left and
Even theft gets thirsty eventually.
But it’s steaming today so I need to
Pay for an eight pack and get back to
Work spitting words to afford me another,
And he grants me my wish and I’m home
To write up my account of his day.
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ReplyDeleteI remember this one too. I guess I read a bit before I ever let a response out. I know that store & that clerk and those people in the street. I know a similar sort of feeling minus the ability to spit words with that sharp elegance that is yours.
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