A Cold Poem
Photo credits: Pixabay Cold, a cold carrel Shelves crammed With creased cookbooks Squares, chalk lines and wood chisels Tools for his craft In too tiny a space. Cold, a cold cradle Cast in steel, cold, metallic cold Rocking the carpenter’s yearling To sleep after his daily sip Of crusty cream cheese Cheeky, chortling And in his childish rage Hurls his china cup To chase imaginary spooks His world, a blissful place Cold, a cold corridor Walls choked Up with faded carpets chipped At corners on racks they cling to Matless and wood chippings for his pillow The carpenter crumples his beddings And tucks his son, he cuddles his joy He can feel his heart pace Cold, a cold lone chair Rickety, reminiscent Braced on the curving wall Of his shanty Next to his workbench Where he hammers timber to shape A litany of laments, a flood of Whys?! The unfair world Failed relationships, crumbling business Leaking shack, he drown...