Shapeless Ageless
This blackbird – in the
urban brambles
alights, cocking his one
bright eye,
watching your shambling
ramblers.
They’re something
shapeless, ageless,
pointless plodders with
potato heads
that tumbled off passing
wagons
and you thought ‘that’ll
do for dinner’,
picked it up, licked your
lips,
several lifetimes
on the wasted hips,
can’t make ends meat, had
your chips.
Bagheads, those sort
executioners use
with the loose ties hanging
off the neck,
greeting each other,
exchanging flecks
of real good spittle, over
cheerful,
you’ve been up and down
this street,
dragging toy dogs on
leads, choice breeds,
ugly mutts that don’t cost
much to feed,
and greet you with a
strangled yip.
No need for any compass
when you see
both ends of your street
quite plainly,
where you’ve been, where
you’re bound,
grunted greetings of ‘see
you around’
with out any sort of foresight or wit,
tangled leads you'll get on to in a bit
and a pocket shovel for your dog’s shit.
This blackbird – sings of the falling night,
cocks his one bright eye
and takes flight.
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