Martha is singing Jesus songs,
her gilt edged voice
dances over sagging fence palings
bringing redemption
and a sour undercurrent of her
vodka martini’s to settle upon us.
Bright eyed children gather
on the pavement
the scrawled
bold bubble Graffiti
of tagger's
beneath their grubby feet.
Unread,
unheard
their words
are Soul Songs
a screamed silent imprecation
pouring injustice and abject despair
in equal quantities
amongst the pure joy
of saying
“Here we are, hear us”.
A blazing litany of me,
to fade and wash away
beneath the tread of urban decay.
Martha’s song ends,
arthritic hands seek
the murky swirl
of the vodka bottle.
The children
melt away
blurred ghosts
returning to the
haze of the street scape
once more.
A moments beauty
dispersing into mid mornings
crisp air
