Poem #81

Poem #81 by David A. Church

Not a Christmas list, a poem,
To evade Morning’s work.
A break from coercion
Of artificial articulation,
Not seclusion on this bench,
But anticipation
For some utterance from a stranger
With a blue bottle in a bluer bag,
Previously buried by a bush.

Watch downing of beer
Without reaching the rim,
In case the law indicts
His slobber in public drinking,
And prevents him sharing
His tales, giving opinions
On matters modern.
Only no questions are needed
To begin the conversation.

Southender up for the day
For a court trial
To plead guilty on a stabbing
He never committed.
Instead caused by some love
Shape with his brother,
Unfit for flat or rental terms,
Yet admits to baring all to cops:
Privates and fists.

Been evicted to different greenery
For years living without
Income, or pride of attire,
Only cursing a lack of luck
That went his way,
The foreigners grasping justice
From his unwashed hands,
Low logic in the criminal plea to suit
solicitor agendas, boost police statistics.

He has no answers
Other than to comment on the climate
For the last half century,
Label the churchyard features
As a place to hide,
Mild and crisp,
Denounce his sibling
And speculate on some identical
Twin invisible to my history.

He could take care of himself,
Ignore the distractions from the drink,
Continue the interesting speeches
Express appearances to others
But all the inconsistencies, stutterings
And misplaced details,
His handshake, even well wishes
Have given me contributions
To rob for my own recollections.


David A. Church

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