nights in a small town
the evenings were always cold
dark and cold chip-shop hot-chrome bound
long-walked yellow-lamped dull-damp
beating at the street corners as a
cat or dog would mark its territory with
the presence of loud conversation
raucous laughter slag-stone black-capped it all
running with the pouring of steamed laugher
out of the pub’s side door clad in nicotine
lamp-sad dead-black closed chapels
dark side lanes where things could have poked
the lad’s bravado moon-hung bright-smiled
unknowing that they did not know
how they walked the timelines
as fixed as the train lines that spoke
sometimes in their fading away there
a few sad windows to highlight the falling
of chimney smoke upon the pavements
in flagstone quarried from the past
doleful the countenance of everything
streetwise but ignorant of any chances
that might lurk around the corner
of a life in dark-times long-nights pale-dawns
and the bloody awfulness of it all
lost in in the manic guffaws of the damned
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