By Gareth Culshaw
He gets up each morning before the wood
pigeons leave the trees. He brushes
the bucked teeth, sprays deodorant into
his armpits then throws hot water
over his stone edged face.
The sports car waits outside. He handles
the gear stick like his tool. Work
as many hours as he can, take
the chequebook home and write
signatures for things
that won’t fit in his coffin.
His friends are diluted by his words. He picks
up dumbells in a room full of mirrors.
Gone are the days of smoking weed,
debit card lines in a pub toilet.
He’s all mature now. Saves for holidays,
tells people he lives. Listens to your words
then swallows them so he can piss them out
in a urinal. He once swore allegiance
to the union jack by having a tattoo.
My first collection, ‘The Miner’ available now at: www.gculshaw.co.uk
Twitter – https://twitter.com/CulshawPoetry
YouTube Channel – Gareth Culshaw Poetry