The Day’s Grace

A child stands on a balcony
with a chalkboard in one hand
and a man standing in the frame
of the window watches him—
Spitting image, he smiles.

He is looking out at the school down below
as young girls paint the street blue
with the colour of their uniforms.

And in the pub houses I pass,
people’s faces take on the shape
of cartoon characters,
their eyes look like scribbles
drawn onto their heads.

Their yellowed eyes lit by lampshades,
I am resentful of all they cradle—
fancy cars and drunken faces.

And in the bunker flats below,
a little boy is scribbling away,
not a care in the world.

He thinks he knows it all, but he doesn’t
and the whole world is sleeping while
he writes his own story;

“But no one cares about the soldier boy anymore.
He died fighting the good fight in ‘07,
the last true war, his comrades all sold out.”

The baby blue lover sits on the corner,
she has stolen my attention by sitting on my bench,
while she whispers in common sense;

“You can have too much or too little faith in someone,
but never the right amount.”