Fresh Meat
Fresh meat.
Fresh cold meat on the counter of a butcher's shop;
bicycle clips on an old man's trousers as he cycles to his garden plot.
A child with a stick pretending to fish in the pond just down the road from the house that his mum and dad bought.
Bright white headlights blazing from the car coming towards you in a street with no lamp posts as you walk.
Cold empty rooms with tubular lighting and a large poster on the wall saying criminal- stop thief stop.
Orange plastic seats so uncomfortable you wriggle in them and then realise the chair wasn't meant to be comfy only designed to be cheap and nasty like the colour it's got.
Heat rising from the tarmac on a hot sunny sunday afternoon and the day never ending because you're a child that sees every little detail and your mind races like a clock.
Some of these things you might remember but in the end you're just fresh meat on a chopping block.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
