Treasure Island

Stephen Loomes


Wage Slaves


The wage slaves, hating their jobs!

We only do it for the money!

Back in the lift after the cigarette;

On the street

Where an elderly stately woman

Cranes her head

From the comfort of her leather seat

As her beloved husband reverses

Into the traffic, then glides the Mercedes

To the pedestrian crossing, waiting

For the youthful parents, cigarette in hand

Kids in tow, unemployed, poor, hating

Judging the comfort of wealth.

Cranky, perennially, at no rhyme or reason

What do anyone’s judgments matter

Whether they curse or flatter?

We carry the world in our head

As we travel into the future

Till the end of our season.

We move through space and time

With cohorts, friends enemies and lovers.

What we learn we end up forgetting

Except the wounds or kindness which lingers.

Entropy consumes the relics of our constructions

And the shame of our sometime destructions

When death which taps out our hours

Takes us into the the abyss of no-escape

Which we face alone, on life’s windy cape

Submitted: Friday, September 20, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 20, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Bleak cape was where this was written; I have since returned

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