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
