Sunday poetry

black and white

I sit for Leyburn street
and poor red brick

I sit for unholy crucifixes
carved in shoepolish

I sit for hours because the cigarette went out
while dregs drink dregs of bitter pint
and life
staving off the looking glass
that spies bar oak and
coffin

I sit for housewives etched in doorways
and the milk that went off when
he did

I sit for the garden full of rust and broken toys
like beautiful postcards from Italy but
from cot dead ghosts

I sit for the sad hookers in the window
of the florist

I sit for the facedown on burnt orange laminate
saturated and pathetic
her bare arse revealed under
floral white dress
that’s suddenly blooming red

I sit for a girls bare breasts
and that one eye
still holds a sign that says
sad love

~ Ross Johnson


Read more poetry of unusually high unusualness at Clutching at Straws.