A Lifeless Ordinary

The seeds of pleasure run a deep crease through this one. This deathly seeker with intent in his eyes. Resting his hands in all the right places. This careless wretch. The figure of just the right height leaning 'gainst the lamppost and smoking a beer. This unscout, uncouth life will be lived but unloved. Though it instead should be feeling its way through a misty communal shower.

But I'll wait. I'll wait 'till you have an apron wife and kids on bikes. The smell of baking and the sound of a creaky veranda. The sight of you suited with a briefcase passing the pickets and waving. The deathly faces will greet you and remind you of what you forgot. Then, I suppose, you'll talk and talk and work your way 'round it. But inside those three there is instilled the image of a wretch.

One found each crease in the haze. The hands hugged and soon enough rested. One felt dead and sought and destroyed. Like a glass ashtray. In the lamplight the shadow flung and thudded and breathed alcohol.

And then I'll pray for once. An arm for an arm and a seed for a seed.