Outside, the Bitumen coloured skyline
Blotches the air of the super market doors
I find them sitting there, desolate and arranged
like pigeons in couped
Staring absently: the ice cubed face women
Look onwards with grease tinged perception
Holding onto their battered baby carriages
With Cellphones held in one hand and
cigarettes rolled in the other
Conversing in magical cesspools
of their sadly ordinary lives
And yet I find myself compelled to watch
They fitter their arms nonsensically
Imitating the language of english
Knowledgeable experts of ignorance
Wearing cheap nylon duffel coats
And salvation army sweat pants
(and yet I'd still take the stringy brunette
if only for five minutes....)
Alas they do not look out of place
In the unforgiven steal rimmed grey sky
Sedentary statuesque with skeleton conscience
Its as if they have always been there...
and sadly,
yet
always will
as life never found
a meaning for them....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem