DURING THE LAST WEEK

Ricky, the carpet-man
said to me that he was
‘living the dream’
though he looked
fatigued and could
barely raise a smile;
one of my asshole
bosses said that he
‘Was not too shabby’
but I see that he was
clearly deceiving
himself;
Simon, a young factory
labourer said that he
‘was trying to make it
happen’
but gave no further
details;
Tom the gardener
said that he
‘Could be worse’
and of course he’s
damn right,
Murray monster the removal
guy told me that
‘It’s hellish, a different
hell every fucking day’
and I could see through
his thick black/grey
pirate beard that he was
speaking his truth;
Carmelina, after reading
a poem that mentioned
her beautiful breasts said
to me
‘How would like it, if I
wrote about your dick
all over the internet?’
Quietly, I thought, it’d be
okay , providing it was
complimentary, but I said
‘I couldn’t give a shit’
Jean, a long retired bank
exec said that she
‘wanted nothing more
than to die’ but she
didn’t have the
‘Courage or imagination
to kill herself’
and I could even see
death looming
and waiting
in her shadow
that rested
against a blank wall
behind her.

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; his poems have appeared widely in the small press and online literary journals including; Rusty Truck; Red Fez; Hobo Camp Review; Rats Ass Review; Down In The Dirt; Yellow Mama; Outsider Poetry; Chicago Record; Horror Sleaze and Trash; BoySlut; In Between Hangovers; He is a contributing poet to the 2016, 48th Street Press Broadside Series.