Friday 30 November 2012

#33 - Slow Barge To Malaise

And you shall know us by our trail of seagulls:
noisy chevrons against a lemon sunrise.
The canal water parts with reluctance.

Some Fridays, the pollution is so bad
that you can stare right at the midday sun
and it doesn't even hurt - like watching
Pac-Man emerge through fog.

I am Charon sans tariff, sans Styx,
the heaped refuse behind me that fizzes and hums;
would that I could forget it.
We have no country. I have no shoreleave.
I am poor at banter - four ringpulls, my knuckleduster.

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