by George Chopping
Eventually back on board the boat
to an angry cat and a cold dead fire.
But better that, than an angry fire
and vice versa.
The river’s a ruffled cravatte;
a moderately annoyed pensioner
listening to the shipping forecast
which still makes little sense.
Words of customers wash o’er head
after another day at the fucking cafe.
Froth spat from up off the tops of coffee cups
in cranial canyons it lies like tidal scum
Foam treasured like a chest
washed up; a handbag for the seagulls
to dance around. Tapping, slapping
on the hard, dark sands of Torquay.
Then, the sudden sound of a dishevelled,
feathered pigeon flies up from under the fence
by the bins whilst I dispose of night before’s bottles.
Still stunned, I stand frozen. Un-cradling of my unsettled state:
The pigeon coos, “Ha, ha! I’ve escaped! And you’re still here,
trapped like a coffee bean tumbling towards the grind!”
“Yes, true.” I reply. “And probably not tomorrow, nor certainly today
But pest control will drive-by soon and shoot you down like clay.
So remember that, you foul-beaked
waddle of vermin!”
“Don’t forget to clock back in, wage slave!” Taunts the pigeon
“Good luck in the next race, you feathered bag of lard!” I retort.
On return to duty I put chalk
to black board and although not in my mind
in black and white
the pigeon became somewhat ‘special’