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Sharon Harriott's Poetic Works
The Old Man
Cars and busses, feet on wet
pavement,
Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.
And you, oblivious to time, you lament
At dark windows, docking your cap.
Dapper old man in your battered suit,
Aiming your lighter toward your fag,
A story set in your own head, you salute
All that is familiar to you; a sad,
Weathered building in Muswell Hill.
Lights green, clutch off, and off,
I launch myself into now, and still
Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.
I Was Scared of You
Your lips stop momentum.
Set nondescript, then twisted;
My gut quickly mimics the movement
Yanking my innards and then freezing them fast.
Your eyes have no depth
And thus, my image skims your surface
How your words blow into my face!
Surge, and flow through my damp eyes.
Now, memory juts jagged,
Impressed on slow blinking lids.
A coma vision for when, again,
I am repulsive and obtuse.
Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott
2007-08
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Sharon Harriott's Poetic Works
The Address
Number 00 Fortune Raw, Toothing,
London, SW00 OHL,
United Kingdom,
Earth,
The Universe
Tree green, dotted with tiny white flowers,
The large roomed imitated a forest glade.
So different to outside, the grey, and the red.
The cars, the shops and the school run.
The bed dominated its vast centre,
Its Barbie pink beckoned comfy nights.
No more bars, only the rumple of PVC.
And no more bruises on elbows and shins.
If I looked right, from the sash window,
I could see the park, and imagine the slides.
Beyond, a hospital chimney spewed soot,
And the leisure centre with D.I.S.C.O at 8pm.
The magic cupboard had a brass-handled door,
I could crouch and hide with Humpty.
Until I realised the dark had crept in,
Then jump the small divide to mum’s.
Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott 2007-08
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