The PressA Poem by Andrew JohnMemories of when I was in newspapersWhen it’s in motion its deafening clatter will mesmerise you if you stand still and listen; but when it is silent the great room seems to sigh. And in the yard the vans prepare to course through a city’s anatomy, deliver to every capillary nutritional gossip and rumours of wars. ___ Note: Benefits from being read aloud, or heard in the head.
© 2022 Andrew John |
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