Saturday, December 29, 2012

Foot of The Walk

He is an old skeleton of a man. Stranded somewhere in his sixties. Stubble tough as sandpaper. Stubble cement grey. His eyes bloodshot and ghosted like a man who has been taken over. He whispers to himself.

He carries a bottle of wine haphazardly under his arm right which spills as he tries to settle it. A cap sits crookedly on his head. His short coat is dirtied by grease and sick mess. His trousers hang loosely around his waist. By all accounts one gone quite mad.

He walks stiffly like a boy who has defecated in his trousers. This is no simile; a sewage leak has stained through and dribbles down his right leg. He mutters to himself.

This is a man who has been burned of his wings and robbed of his halo. No Saints in this city. The burden is yours alone. Stories of despair wait behind so many dank curtains. 

At the junction he edges awkwardly round the corner. We cross the road, walking farther into our lives and further away from his; averting our eyes from the suns glare.  


Bobby Morris said...

Good day to you, Colin. I discovered your blog a few years ago, and every once in a while I came back to see what was new. I'm not a poet myself, nor can I claim to be an expert in it, but I think your work is very good, better than most of the other stuff I see. There's an "aliveness" and a fresh originality to it. In this one, for example, the last paragraph is excellent.

Now that I've embarked on blogging myself, I thought I'd say hello and sign up to your feed. See you around :-)

McGuire said...

Amazing to hear from you. I just noticed your comment. Encouraging to hear your words!

Good to know there is at least one reader our two out there.

Pleasure to hear from you Bobby!