The sound of running feet

Change for the best
change for the rest and
the zing and the zest
follow on.

There’s middle ground that we muddle through, work and play, come home, do you?

In this
the Central zone, the wishbone line
I’ve found the time to think aloud amidst the seething, heaving crowd.

Nothing’s fair
not love or life and war is what were brought here for, dying’s not fair either, but someone’s got to go sometime.

I die,
a litre at a time in this
the wishbone Central line.

But I drink it in and set my face and wonder if it is my place to question why.

A thousand weeks ago or maybe yesterday
can’t really say when,
a thousand men or more penned another all-out war inside a cabinet room,
cigar smoke mixing it with doom and soon which might be now or never we get to see how clever they were.

Fair?
If it was it was because there was nothing to compare it with.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.