Pout-chested pigeons pick
Their way through garbage
That litters pathetic plots
Of sour earth.
And soot-stained privet,
Plastic to the touch,
Struggles in vain and fails
To decorate or brighten
The crumbling decay
Of once fine buildings.
Threadbare is the corpse,
Its rotting rafter bones
Protude from tileless roofs
And corrugated sheeting shutters its eyes.
A diesel like a death watch beetle
Scuttles past
Disturbing the twitching sleep
Of the dying geriatric.
Yet human life,
Like a maggot in a carcass,
Nibbles away at existence,
Viewing with alarmed suspicion
Footfalls and voices
That ring hollow through the tomb.
Faded curtains twitch
And the mad eye of the lonely
Peers through stained glass windows.
And the mad brain of the lonely
Atrophies
In fear of that fatal knock.
Goff Esther
