Ghost Town

Smashed glass alley rain swept ,
boarded storefront windows ,
chainlocked factory gates ,
broken streetlamp neighbourhoods ;
sour tastes of failure ,
slothful mornings embittered
with inadequate rage choking
in throats too tired to scream ;
meagre ranks of the not unemployed ,
raking over the embers of irreplaceable tradition ,
like red-coated sentries at Rorke’s Drift
waiting waiting for the day to close ,
and the sorrows of the town
to be left idling like abandoned reactors ,
melting down to their core ;
unquiet night slithering frost crawling ,
across glass canopied neon catacombs ,
home to vacant stares of the dealers ,
vacant intimacies of the crowd’s camaraderie ,
kindled by too much booze not enough booze,
before waking again and again ,
in the smashed glass alley rain swept .

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