In some doorway hidden away from the main street
where the poor people lay down for a night sleep,
I meet up with my old friend
who being the miser of time reminds me
to move on or to stand in the line
for my soup of the day.
Charity and crusts of bread for the living and for those who don’t know they are dread or dead or dreadfully fed or just led on by society to the pits where notoriety is the norm.
How about the dreadfully dead?
the well fed dreaded dead?
it is said,
have love in our hearts
there’s a bunch of old farts out there who don’t give a shite and don’t fuckin’ care,
in the doorway with an old friend we watch the time end with a whisper, a sigh and two fingers up at the eye in the sky.
They watch all the time little knowing that there’s little time left.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.