Death of a Town
A town wheezes the last rites over
its people through phlegm-ridden
lungs and turgid cankers.
Its blistered wounds are coated
in the mud that lines its harbour
and creeks.
The loss of the dockyards was its lowest tide.
Now, existing work taunts the town from
the other side of the harbour,
separated by low tides and disused ferries.
As the town slides closer to its knees,
the landlords willingly house
the subsidised washouts.
And gang fights marry into husband
and wife fights, twisted around petty
pride and sectarian bigotry.
Leaving kids to run about half-stoned
and roaring with cider, where the
unpredictable waits around the corner.
And rape happens behind the church,
under God's careful watch, where worship
of the needle leaves only emptied lives.
And lost souls sleep under cardboard palaces.
This is a town that wants them out, so that
it can shut the doors, draw the blinds
and start again.
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2016
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