Caged
(If it wasn’t for the nights, I think that I could see the light)
It’s all in:
A still born calendar
that says it all
is tacked with
pritt-stick to the wall.
That patient pacing
of the flat,
counting ceramic
tiling cracks.
Filth that gritty-sticky
to your sole,
grimy nails dust
thick with coal.
Bites that callous
itch and sore,
those vacant noises
from next door.
Rousing sweating in
the dark.
Peeling paint from
ancient mark.
Why-fie nothing
doing, no connection,
blank screen staring
with abjection.
Howling traffic,
endless hateful,
Karwa drivers grim
and grateful.
Concrete, cranes and rust
construction,
the gaudy glut of oil
production.
Western bar that
boasts of sports,
drunks that drink and
think home thoughts.
Pairs of friends who
gaze at phones,
Single mourners sit
silent alone.
The choons the bands
play make you grieve,
you can check out but
you can never leave.
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