Daily Poems: Tuesday 5 March
Closing Time
The payphone is broken, its contents spilling
onto the West Pier`s weathered boards.
Seagulls dive bomb, scattering tourists in the drizzle;
they fatten up on chips from Kiss Me Quick cones.
Fairground carnies drift in and out of arcade
machinery, blow steam into fingerless gloves.
Cold shoulders shrug into the slice of a South-westerly;
dirty coppers are counted and thrust into bank bags.
I snap the catches shut on my guitar case,
close my fingers over the coach-ticket in my pocket.
I walk past public toilets humming on lock-down.
An upturned bucket half dug into oily sand
catches falling rain like an old boozer`s spittoon.
The seaside town calls last orders.
Paul Hawkins
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March 8, 2013Quail Puff
And the quail puff rode,
as the huffalump strode….
Daily Poems: Thursday 7 March
March 7, 2013Cappuccino
Sometimes I’m consumed
with living,
dead
but never more alive.