Rusted and Under used

A very quick poem. I'll return to it and sort it all out.

Outside my door, scattered on the

ground, are countless cigarette butts,

soggy bits of card, beer cans, egg shells;

a cat is scavenging for food; the council

are the same with money. It’s been

snowing and the bin men are over- due,

no grit meant they couldn’t get through.

It has brought the town to its knees.

 

My Bike is rusted and under used,

my neighbour, a landscape gardener,

drives less than a mile to the shop –

he discards those cigarette butts too. I

flick through the thousands of TV channels,

unsure of the right kind of news – Obama’s

$2 trillion rescue plan or Matt Smith’s £1

million deal to be the next Doctor Who.

 

Tomorrow might bring riots; we’re in a

recession yet prostitutes down the road

still do business; maybe tomorrow we’d

have broken through, when the town falls

destitute or we mourn the ancient market,

something people are used to. Tomorrow

we might learn that being micro-righteous

simply won’t do. Tomorrow we might have

a hangover.

Author's Note

What really doesn't work? Be hard, objective, ruthless.

Reviews

[Emily B]

You know better. I can't be hard, objective or ruthless. I like it as it is. Everybody has questions these days. I'm headed home soon to a house without electric. Winter storms, winds and tornadoes have hit a state that was already weakened by ice storms last week. :) The thousand tv channels won't matter tonight, I guess. There may only be a kerosene lamp and a book before we turn in early. Cheers, friend. I'll see you tomorrow maybe.