The Scream

Not the greatest look,
but less, who should care
private plated, seat back, tuned
some far off desert island
eyes shut, mouth agape,
almost dead, can’t work out,
another Munch?
or catching flies in bulk
either way, you’ve arrived
when you lounge across
two bays, far from the queues
bathed in costly hide
from ex-German cows,
radio humming quietly, far
from the muddling crowd, mums
with pointy pushchairs, content
to let your better, younger half
fight others’ fishing wives
in retail heaven, or not
depends which way inclined,
somewhere in the valleys
with time to chill, on a Tuesday

Normally I’d be sorry,
for nudging the horn, but,
from the corner of my eye
it was a priceless awakening

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

One reply on “The Scream”

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