Down The Drain Poem by Sally Plumb Plumb

The factory loomed
at the top of the hill.
A pub sign reflected
in yesterdays puddle
when it started again

The next days morning
mixed the muddle
with the rains
darkening frown
on falling leaves
from a tree dripping wet
with the stain of the sky,
which proved messier yet
from chimney soot
in the root of the road
and underfoot.

A broken bottle,
nights empty threat,
soaked fag ends,
the torn slip of a bet,
a stench of beer
from an open door
of a toilet crawled,
where someone had pissed
on the concrete floor
and drawled
dribbled words
with the wetness andmess.

All that remained
was the aftermath,
a drenched, stale mourning,
and a big bass broom
to sweep the path
as the gurgling gutter
was muttering glass
and disappeared
down the drain.