still breathing
not writing
in the shadows
of petrol pumps
poets do not pitied fall on their prolific pens
just standing walking through fume molasses
ten hour shifts but pumps more than pay bills
as the body thins into new shapes
swift wakeful sleepy routine minds
splitting between struck till keys
defines tank needs
in busy week endings
weekend shadow worlds
shadow petrol head worlds
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem