Shapes become shapeless and the shapeless are the homeless on the pavements that undress them and put them to bed, reforming and naming the nameless if reforming’s the word or reshaping the ones that are shapeless making the idea of homelessness absurd would if we could be ideal.
there’s a countdown to the shantytown and the clock’s ticking on.
We’re just a handout to the landfill hardly holding our own,
waiting for the theatre crowd and the seeds have been shown
to be sown in the grimaces and sneers that have grown in the
gardens of England which we’ve never known.
But it’s sunny, how laughably funny that things always look brighter
when the weather turns nicer.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.