BRONX 1933.

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on March 13, 2010 0 Comments

Sunday afternoon
After dinner, once
Jack has had his short

Snooze, you make it out
To the bench and sit
With all the others

To grab some air and
Chat and bum a smoke
And take in the view

For what it’s worth, but
It has to be way
Better than being

Stuck within the four
Walls of the rooms in
The rundown housing

Block, listening to the
Radio or Jack
Snoring or the odd

Couple upstairs with
Their rowing and loud
Shouting and the noise

Of their darn kids and
Gramophone turned up
High, shaking the dust

From the ceiling with
That jazz they play and
She no better than

A whore having men
There when her old man’s
Out on a weekday

And he, the dum arse,
Not suspecting a
Thing or if he does

He doesn’t seem to
Mind and looking back
Over your shoulder

You see the Brady
Woman with that man
Of hers and she all

Dressed up with the new
Coat he bought for her
Which must have cost him

A fair tidy buck or
Two and she almost
Certainly making up for it 

In bed with the lights
Out and the doing
Of sex and such, and

Jack just sitting there
Beside you staring
At people passing,

His lips sealed, his hat
Plonked on his darn head
Like it was stuck with

Glue and not saying
A word, just sitting,
His mind filled up with

You don’t know what and
Don’t want to know and
Even in his sleep

When he turns over
And passes wind and
Mutters pious prayers

Or cruel curses, you
Are reminded of
The young Jack, the guy

Who promised you the
World and moon and such
And all you got was

The dull rooms, no kids
And nothing else much.

About the Author ()

A man who seeks truth and friendship and hopes for abetter world.

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