Morning Post

Sparks tickle the edge
of a tired can,
Burning hours spent

on bills, falling through
thousands of doors,
One cold hand to next,

To coarse mat where
bad news rests,
Empty with threats,

Carrying heavy chain
tied to old post,
Dents and grime and

rusting decay, wrapped
round house frames,
Leaden limbs

toiling and toiled,
Broken and stained
from the years that passed,

Only to be forgotten
by a rising sun
and patter on the floor;

Still more to pay.



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