There are men passing in the street

dead in their soiled trousers,

soiled in their dead hats.

There’s an awful suit

rolling sales pitches down the road,

dying of self-inflicted catch phrases.

There’s a bright spark, a porch light,

obsessed with reading books

on how to write books

on how to win friends

and resurrect dead ambassadors.

There are women who put on

catastrophic shoes

for nights of love with

indentured civil servants.

Why make the effort?

Why go out into streets

smirched with unpardonable berries,

inedible afternoons

and pigeons fed on

violent detective serials?

I’ve mastered the precise science

of staying indoors,

I’ve acquired

through long years of trial and error

all I need to avoid the others

for at least another century.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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