Flathunting

Poem

Feet and back ache like pins of fire
Thumping tarmac like ball of lead
In the back grey streets of yonder

Literally crying out loud,
a hoagie too, in the ball sore
Slipping and sliding in wet concrete
In shoes that will soon be no more

Down streets and smells and adverts
With goods on display tempting sweets
Pretty bright Indian dress with mirrors
In an incense smelling shops
Smoke and mirrors remove the burden
Of my body, for the rest, to rest.
For the children, our future,
For all the good which God has awaiting