THE WAREHOUSE BLUES
Hunckered, rocking
In the silence of noise,
Concrete spits back drops of rain,
And whining wires whistle word ‘ungrateful!’
Self-wrapped, smoking,
From the wind of tyres…hiding
In a corner shadow, fogged by regret,
Glared at, imprisoned by paper-beeched hedges.
Reddened, greying,
Signs of liquidation…rusting
Boxes no longer chalk-churned,
Windowed-eyes cracked with tears.
Snortling seafarers,
Soar way up over Sunday’s Well,
Winged tattling scavengers delighting in the misery of men,
Who wail a lament called ‘The Warehouse Blues’
Hunckered, rocking
In the silence of noise,
Concrete spits back drops of rain,
And whining wires whistle word ‘ungrateful!’
Self-wrapped, smoking,
From the wind of tyres…hiding
In a corner shadow, fogged by regret,
Glared at, imprisoned by paper-beeched hedges.
Reddened, greying,
Signs of liquidation…rusting
Boxes no longer chalk-churned,
Windowed-eyes cracked with tears.
Snortling seafarers,
Soar way up over Sunday’s Well,
Winged tattling scavengers delighting in the misery of men,
Who wail a lament called ‘The Warehouse Blues’
Maureen Walsh - 15th January, 2010 ©
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