In Transit

Cris-crossing planes
Soar so high;
At their level,
You forget why:
On your way
To pastures new,
Seeking something
Better to do.

Now in transit
As midday fades,
Your body-clock
At last gives way.
In your aisle seat
With eyes shut tight –
Willing time to
Spur this flight.

And as you begin,
Nerves set in:
You fear the cost of a fall –
But in the end,
You’ll comprehend:
You can’t win ‘em all.

The night before
A tear slipped out;
You held on and
Voiced your doubts.
Kissing them up
I pulled you near –
And told you to
Embrace your fears.

Hindsight tells you
Then was better;
Selling souvenirs
Or vintage sweaters.
But once you land
You’ll start to see
That Now lies in
New York City.

And as you get in,
Nerves rescind:
Your fears are fallow to all –
As in the end,
You comprehend:
“I can’t win ‘em all.”

Hoardings

Where hope is lost

Hoardings are found –

This is why we

Tear them to ground.

The Shop

Ripped clean out and held so high,
Beating still yet stunting life;
The gaze of strangers no longer met –
In looking away, I hope to forget.

Units of time distort with rage,
Dragging in shifts of minimum wage:
I kill moments with wasting ploys,
Biting my tongue without a choice.

Interest gleaned from silly remarks –
Old women’s prayers, scumbags’ barks:
Any distraction from the intrigues
And the battles of petty colleagues.

I sweat and bleed for those with reason,
Colloquial logic a tragic treason –
They embrace me like an only son,
Though I am not the only one:
Still I fail to see my life pass by,
My stagnation such I cannot cry.

And I struggle in vain to pass the time,
Yet mourn its memory never mine.

Thieves lord it over in drunken jest
Within antipodes they believe are best:
They steal two bottles of cheapest wine,
Ceasing outside their committed crime.

I give chase and reclaim our stock,
Displaying guile, to the thieves’ shock;
Yet I’d hoped it would end right there –
On the cold, dead street without a care;

Without a care because of cares scanty:
Nama’s enema leaving us empty.
The world still spins but Clongriffin does not,
Because in the end we are all forgot.

I sweat and bleed for those with reason,
Colloquial logic a tragic treason –
They embrace me like an only son,
Though I am not the only one:
Still I fail to see my life pass by,
My stagnation such I cannot cry.

And I struggle in vain to pass the time,
Yet mourn its memory never mine.