Resolution #9

A cascade of sparks
exploding in the blackness
of a revellers sky
like bright tears.

Crying for the homeless
sat where the light
doesn’t fall,
under archways,
behind garages,
in cardboard boxes.

Damp and cold
while a flaming wheel
greets the crescent moon
as it circles.
A metaphor
of the turning year.

Out with the old and needy,
in with the bright young thin...

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Old Tyke Blues

I woke up this morning -

found my leg was dead.

Slipped as I got up

and banged my head,

fingers to temple

came away red,

trail on the carpet

where I had bled.

Went down for breakfast -

the milk had gone sour,

turned on the toaster -

a distinct lack of power.

Go back upstairs,

stand under the shower -

water is...

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