Thursday, 14 October 2010

The Victim

In a Forest Green tux and a blue pinstriped shirt,
A golfing tie, not a grey hair to the eye.
Watching his back with mutterings and apologies,
Cradling his back with desperations and longing profanities .
Nervous, who can blame him?
A yawning sun hitched on the back of his head,
And no doubt the Mrs is at home, making the bed.
Waiting for the breadwinner to return to the throne,
Contemplating the lingering, sour smell of defeat.

No comments:

Post a Comment