Urban Diorama

The park,
an oasis of green calm
threatened by a desert
of office towers,
was the place,
favoured 
by the avatars
of the fiscal god Chaos,
for a quick lunch
and smoke.

Precisely
at one-o-five
he would shamble
to his special bench,
across from the 
pigeon toilet
that resembled
Robbie Burns,
and sorted contents
of the green bin
into three piles:
lunch, 
refundable cans or bottles,
and unusables.

He shared
his recycled, 
second-hand lunch
with pigeons, sparrows, squirrels,
and the odd curious seagull.
His guests were
frequently frightened away
by the strength and violence
of his repeated cough,
as his advanced infection
brought this urban
Saint Francis of Assisi
daily closer 
to his lonely martyrdom.

Waiting For The Night

His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent 
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.

The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
mind more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.

Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into the traffic.

Yesterday's Children

The stiffness of the morning
will  s  l  o  w  l  y
work its way
out of tired joints.
Bland breakfasts
ensure
regularity, 
a welcomed monotony.
Well-planned days
permit
no dismal contemplation
of tomorrow.

We are Yesterday’s children,
remembering too well,
the heat and the passion,
the beauty that was ours.
Hearing echoes 
of past glories,
we sojourn here today,
until,
like dreams
and memories,
we gently
              fade
                    away.

Fog People

You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.
You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating, 
                ethereal 
         movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.

They drift
     quietly,
            gently,
on the edge
                  of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
                       people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.

If we chance
to           pause,
to peer                     beyond
the drifting veil,
we see, 
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.

Eleanor Rigby Redux

It hung on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
Quick access for a visit to the “outer world”,
that mask fit my soul like a kiss.
Unexpected door bells caused panic and confusion
that sorted themselves,
as the mask told me what I must do.

Inside was stark,
with rooms both bright and dark,
horrible, yet ecstatic,
threatening, yet titillating.
In one spartan tower
the poet suffered
the sure and certain knowledge 
that he should never write again.
In the ballroom, the grande dame
told all what to believe,
how to behave.
The lower level prison
held one who had forgotten
all he ever knew.
The madman smiled,
striding corridors of opportunity,
and planning...planning...
The hermit meditated,
becoming something completely strange,
and different,
from his enlightened self.

The acceptable mask
awaits on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
The occupants are restless:
which shall don the “acceptable” mask,
and face the world?