His face, a withering peach dried of happiness;
cares relentlessly tapping at his temples;
years spent yanking a livelihood from obstinate fields.
Still that skulking alertness, a hunger behind his eyes;
trigger-fast assessments, critical, begrudging;
observing the world with a lead-shot gaze.
The exertions of neighbours stored, bones for picking over
through interminable nights; nights that stack,
block upon block, building building hatred.
No comments:
Post a Comment