He scrabbles in muck,
Down on his luck,
A sorrowful sight,
With eyes swollen, tight
From crying
Over milk
That was spilt
Long ago.
He scrabbles in bins
For his things,
Searches for food
In places you’d
Rather avoid,
Get’s annoyed
When offered help
He doesn’t want.
He scrabbles in brick dust,
Crushed, flushed, stuffed
Between lath
And plaster,
Amongst jaws of
Wood that splinters
Against a darkening sky,
Searching, always searching.
He scrabbles through days,
Endless days,
Tasteless days,
Empty days,
And lays
His head down
At night
In a box.
With eyes swollen, tight
From crying
Over milk
Spilt.
Polly Robinson © 2012
He scrabbles …
Polly Robinson © 2012
20/04/2012 at 05:38
it makes me so sad.
20/04/2012 at 05:39
Yes, it is sad, a sort of lament.
Thank you for commenting
20/04/2012 at 06:24
This is so good.
20/04/2012 at 06:26
You’re an early bird, Ethan!
Glad you like it
20/04/2012 at 07:30
Haha, quite the contrary – I’m a night owl.
. It’s 1:30 am over here.
20/04/2012 at 07:31
Oooh, ‘eck, I keep forgetting about the time differences … it’s now 07:31 here
20/04/2012 at 11:16
full of pathos Polly…the last stanza is especially powerful
20/04/2012 at 13:46
Thank you, Sally, lovely to see you here
20/04/2012 at 22:31
Mm, I do like this. Poignant and plaintive.
21/04/2012 at 07:35
Thank you, Bethany, for your great words
20/04/2012 at 22:50
Bleak and vivid – I really appreciated it – thank you
21/04/2012 at 07:36
It is bleak, thanks for writing, worldly winds
29/04/2012 at 20:57
Poignant…the last stanza, powerful!
29/04/2012 at 21:08
Thank you for visiting and for your comment, Monya.
17/06/2012 at 11:14
Constructed with a nice, tight rhythm. A compelling character portrait.
17/06/2012 at 11:30
Thanks Andy – I’ve worked on this one for some time …
17/06/2012 at 11:19
great sketch of the homeless guy..they have quite the plight…i have a big heart for the cast offs….no matter where i have lived i have found ways to spend time with them…they all have stories…and they are people just like us…only maybe one turn a bit different…
17/06/2012 at 11:31
agreed, Brian, one can’t help but think ‘there but for the grace of God …’
17/06/2012 at 12:04
Very sad work. I like the lack of self pity in the character. There is almost a proud nobility to his futile search.
17/06/2012 at 13:00
Thank you for your thoughts ~ and yes, there is something in the choice of lifestyle perhaps ..?
17/06/2012 at 12:56
I like the use of scrambling in your verses, specially the last stanza ~
Vivid description of the lost and lonely man ~
A pleasure to meet you ~
17/06/2012 at 12:59
thank you for your comments ~ good to meet you too ~
17/06/2012 at 14:27
Polly, I felt my fingers getting dirtier and dirtier with each stanza.
What a description. Really observed or a combination?
Quite something.
17/06/2012 at 14:50
mmm … combination – the pic is one I found online and seemed the right one for this poem – but of course one observes …
Thanks for your thoughts, aprille
17/06/2012 at 15:04
Awful, but everywhere. k.
17/06/2012 at 15:14
K, they are … a sad reflection on society?
17/06/2012 at 15:40
i wish society made it easier for them to find a way back… some of them don’t want to though.. life broke at a certain point for them and no way to get back to normal…i know about doctors that ended up as a homeless on the street
17/06/2012 at 15:43
This is part of the problem, I suspect, Claudia, that so many actually do not wish to have a different way of life … but how can we tell?
18/06/2012 at 17:07
This went down well at last night’s do I thought.
So brave being the opening act too!
18/06/2012 at 17:12
Thanks Holly – it can be a bit nerve-wracking being the first on … I had quite a few comments on this poem and on He Drinks Blood and like most of us use those as an indicator – I did think the poetry last night was well-received.
14/07/2012 at 23:18
Regret can be a miserably haunting obsession, which you have described quite well in “Spilt Milk”…
14/07/2012 at 23:24
Thanks for your thoughts Lindy.