By Mickey Finn
You are far away,
and somewhere, the birds sit
on pylon cables, swaying in breezes
that do not kiss me. the sun ends a day
of burning somewhere and begins
a day of burning someplace else.
people cry as one pair of lungs
inhale their last width of a sweet world.
a tree falls and maybe there is some
forsaken soul around to hear it. mercifully,
adrenaline tells a victim that everything will be fine.
there’s a bucket of used soapy water
swilling the vestibule step of a weary house
built one hundred years ago, where a
woman, who is too tired to complain,
lives forever wondering if it is too soon
to smoke another.
and You are far away.
Mickey Finn is a working class poet, born, raised, and living in liverpool, uk. having written for half his life, his poetry has been ready hundreds of thousands of times the world over, and quoted in places such as london tube stations. his debut collection, golden, has sold copies across the globe.