Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.143.7.75
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn
				                             …at the heart of the township
ten-ton buses throb empty
				their drivers slumped in the heat
   behind their steering wheels listening to their favourite stations 
		hot full of drowsy hissed talk on the pregnancy of stars
at junctions  overhead drives   bridges   roundabouts    crossroads
     you see mothers with shopping bags dragging woeful tearful 
                                toddlers waiting at traffic lights where no traffic waits
the air disgorges itself of fumes
			and no birds would sing to a deserted plain 
	at the academy building where garden warblers vied with larks
aspiring choruses at street operas
		only the abandoned rickety scaffolding drip with stale paint
the Great tit so insistent in her quest
      driven with late June cracker blasts at midnight
             has joined some vagrant migrant lot to the Mediterranean mists
only stray magpies quarrel in undertones swearing cursing scrapping the mind
       pigeons and turtle doves forage along pathways mocking foot-falling steps			 
   the route round the back of the Prefecture for a year now is shut to the public
		a reminder to the Charlie Hebdo ISIS fiasco
and the joggers take to the thoroughfare in their tell-tale whallop-y shorts
        at the kinder gardens lone working mothers hang out with texting iPhones for the evening bell

the beggars    all      gone to sun themselves (yes…this’s cruel) on the Riviera
     
	 leaving four wizened figures long un-paying residents by the law faculty mounds
seated next to next in their unwashed best exchanging memories
              like the kids they may have been at tenement blocks on an abandoned culvert without toys
	the skies cloud over and dissipate without complaint
now and then Atlantic winds bring news of thunder
	and have us short-changed
     the last we heard was the early morning 5.20 metro pull out of its shed 

at the drug-and-grocery stores   supermarkets    only the migrant lot meet to chat
		the Mall stays chockfull of lush-green girls dressed in their mothers’ best
	looking for a fix
   the queues thin at the chemist’s
						security guards tire of looking into bags
         they smile thinking of something that must have amused them
perhaps at some chance encounter or at some pungent lascivious repartee
    the Maghreb-ian neighbours still won’t give up their heedless tapage 
             you can even hear their gasping breath on creaking boards and floors

those who come and go at the entrance still spy on the locks and keyholes yours to pick and click
	waiting to tell the gardienne or some official still on vacation
       
the usual figures flit through the early light to dig into the rubbish bins
  	lepers of our remains
					where do they bunk
		in what mountain hold or time
silently busy   not-caring                   
                                       what the world might think
								
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required