Nearby, in a greasy spoon, they cut to a swill
slopper whose glossy face reflects the light. In the background shift
workers eat breakfast. Juicy bits of fear fly out of the cracks in their
chapped lips.
They’re coming in, they’re saying you won’t see us any more; we've been made redundant .If the works ever close, then that would be it, a ghost town'
Her ghost stories are alive. In the background,
fluorescent-jacket men force down their final breakfasts. She’s a toothless
seer; her dailies are where worry coagulates amongst the eaters. One by one
they leave her world for good, never to return.
They move on to more
people: High Street shop owners and people in power. A pudgy-faced politician,
in office for years, preaches. He's cautiously optimistic, he knows. In his
beady eyes I see a faint lust.
No comments:
Post a Comment