The Foundlings

about what happened

Houses do not speak, flats rise and the street

smells of boiled cabbage, women in big floral aprons

smoke in pain, Verdun faces.

Children without anchor lay silent on doorsteps, 

they have cradles of newspapers,flyers and milkbottles.

I want to take a big pencil, and scribble over the picture.

The sun crashes before my car, the women glance over,

curious, unashamed as the smoke elegantly,  arms crossed

and supporting their other elbows,they have eyes

narrow with bad light and washing-up liquid.

I wish I had a button on my arm to end my life painlessly,

and that all the people who need me didn`t care too much,

but as it is I turn my car and drive, pictures through

the windscreen flickering, as if it is an old re-run with

dubbed laughter, nothing to like much. 

Reviews

[Emily B]

I started my day with coffee and one of my favorite poets, you can't beat that