This Place

There is decay here,

an almost death,

a dying of a heart.

Here,

in this place this town,

behind shuttered windows

shuttered doors

lays desolation emptiness,

history long ago     

absorbed

into echoes in its walls.

And in this doorway

here he sits, half in half out,

looks up as water spouts from cluttered gutter,

cascading down on already sodden hair. 

He plays well his part, knows his well-practiced line.

This waif this clean-shaven ragamuffin

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket)

waits for the next passing soft-hearted sucker

and grinning, he thinks he sees her coming. 

This is it (he thinks) and he plays his part,

wears his most soulful face and utters:

Can you spare a penny missus?

She hasn’t any and hurries by. 

She wears the worries of this winter,

can differentiate

twixt wants and needs,

knows an empty purse

will not feed her waiting wailing mouth

shivering in his shabby buggy.

Across there,

the market square, once bristling –

now bare and barren

bar dog leading doleful master. 

He [dog] cocks leg into the air,

fountains golden arc into

downpour splattering from the highest heavens. 

They walk a little further and he [dog]

bobs down and defecates. 

Master looks around

and sin unseen (he thinks) they carry on.  

Someone else’s job (he smugly muses).

(She has seen both man and dog,

 tuts in disgust and scurries to the docks,

hoping praying for a waiting sailor.)

The Jolly Roger is nigh going under…  

Outside, paint cracked and peeling –

and over there,

seagulls squawking screeching squealing

squabble over tasty morsels

titbits of last evening’s discarded drunken suppers.

Inside, mein host, angst-ridden

raises a silent toast in hope

of better-things-to-come,

hopes the louts of yesterday

will come again tonight,

the louts who cuss and fight with who/whatever/over

their half-dressed drunken flirting foul-mouthed tarts. 

(At least they bring a paltry income in.) 

He sighs;

there is a poverty in our young (he thinks) –

a poverty of ideas. 

But they are all he has as docks lay ship-empty –

as empty as his once-stuffed till.

The lout – still in his doorway,

Sim Free buzzing in his pocket,

begs beer money as another sucker passes.

There are no ships here,

no sailors here to buy her body,

her body once freely given

to some loud-mouthed cocky lout

(Sim Free buzzing in his pocket);

she then discarded like some drunken supper.

She has no hope. 

She has nothing

but a poverty –

a poverty of ideas.

Anna :o]

The above are imaginations based on observations of my once-bustling & vibrant town centre.  My town centre is dying – and being allowed to die as my myopic council refuse to lower rents.  And on the town’s peripheries, supermarkets flourish…

Entered at OLN at dVerse, hosted by the lovely Beth – thanks Beth.  
Entered today (28.04.14) at Poets United Poetry Pantry - hosted by the lovely Mary - thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Rept0n1x