Killing Time
He'd always been ordinary
Clothes, muted beige
The porcelain cup
with a picture of a cat
meant just that
no significance
Training shoes
some supermarket brand
stitched by children
in Deli - probably
His morning was grey
often they were
he couldn't seem
to start his car
But apart from
emptying the last
of his cash, into
the open hands of a
tramp and the illusion
of creeping damp
everything's normal
yet there it was
his watch had stopped
at twelve o'clock
Just like his own ticker
Clothes, muted beige
The porcelain cup
with a picture of a cat
meant just that
no significance
Training shoes
some supermarket brand
stitched by children
in Deli - probably
His morning was grey
often they were
he couldn't seem
to start his car
But apart from
emptying the last
of his cash, into
the open hands of a
tramp and the illusion
of creeping damp
everything's normal
yet there it was
his watch had stopped
at twelve o'clock
Just like his own ticker
posted by Sue hardy-Dawson at 10/13/2009 07:41:00 PM
2 Comments:
This is a lovely blog. Would they were all as interesting. All too many are just self-obsessed grumbling. Here is a daft poem as a reward for your efforts.
There was a a young poet from Tring
Whose poems lacked one vital element.
He tried all the time
to make the words fit
But the lines were too short.
There are comments on double-barreled names on my "This is Getting Very Silly" blog, and advice on how to stop "Clicks in Pictures" jumping your blogposts to the original of your pictures.
Ain 't Yorkshire GRAND!
Doctor FTSE
tis too, thanks for the poem
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