© Christopher Raine


Men at Work

I’ve sat 
idle as a hobo 
and watched 
tiny hands 
grow from smooth 
saplings of flesh 
to puffy veined sausages 
aches fall 
brown and curled 
to shambling autumn mounds 
the winds will blow soon 
I remember the glistening 
babbling brook of spring 
and blue skies 
before they put up 
the plywood fences 
and billboard signs 
where they built 
row houses of guilt 
and unemployed shame 
the brook is silent now 
nobody talks of the past 
a dried sparkle 
dimmed to dust