Sunday, January 26, 2014

days work done

The crates are discarded
decanted of their wares,
shells, chaff
It no longer takes two hands,
straining and complaining,
to lift these empty vessels.
They are filled, now, with nothing,
the ghost of their content
in stencil.

Maybe they’ll go home
to be refilled with finest ale
useful until the staples rust,
or rot, unfed, in a yard
of forgetfulness
like the pensioner
who once drove the dray.

Their story is unfinished
this is the waiting room
a cobble-carpeted
before the whistle blows.

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