As the sun goes down upon another tired summer’s day
that lonely hour after the kids have gone to bed
and before stumbling drunks fall chasing other people’s dreams
I quietly ride the bus though fading streets
allowing jazz to permeate the solitude of my thoughts.
Bee-bop a bee-bow-bop.

Reluctantly through necessity I trade my asylum
for a factory where morn, noon and night
classic rock blares under fluorescent tubes
and loo paper conveys along mile after mile
of concrete floor and ragged dreamless men.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

With soulless cardboard box in hand I take my place
amongst an ocean of well meaning, forever-changing paper
and with a mechanical stroke of my hand I callously judge:
rejects to the floor, quality to the middle-classes;
thus emulating decisions that keep darkening my dreams.
Swish-whoosh-thud, swish-whoosh-thud.

Whistle blows, neon eyes greet morning skies
with buds in ears, the morning news embraces my slow commute
from a bevy of broken tired men trying to earn their weekend dreams
to the lingering sound of a loved working mum and our beautiful kids
who, innocently pursuing a better future, have just left for school.
Pitta-patta, pitta-patta.

———————–

~2nd Place Editor’s Choice Award