Friday 19 November 2010

The Paper

Train slumped. Paper read.
Indiscriminate judgment 
judged as crap.

But still compassion leaks for those 
who’s stories come to light
like poorly fired pots, 
cracked glaze and empty of
the best intentions of the hands 
who set them as soft clay on 
the spinning wheel.

Why buy a paper for diversion?
There’s enough world here for that.
Enough sorrow in the window,
framing a reflection strip lit against 
retreating dusk.

And enough good news in the drained cups 
and novels set aside for bedside tables, 
somewhere West away, near sea 
and salt spit shackle shell walks 
that shoes tired of city puddles 
dream to take their feet too.

And though I know the hacks 
are crouched in cubicles 
only to pay their way, 
and school hopeful kids enough 
to earn the unquenchable wants
of the supplements,
I can’t help but wonder why they bother
fueling a hamster wheel in a cage 
where the door is always open.

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