Job Shop

He’s never been in one before
there’s queues of men at the door
Frankie thinks a few look like they’ve slept in
their clothes. The staff look weary.
The lass behind the counter asks:
Name. Address?
Er, I’m hangin. At me mates.
You can’t register without an address,
take this away and fill it in,
we’ll make an appointment.
One man in the queue stares
he’s tall and his suit’s threadbare.
The others all ignore Frankie – tragedy
is nothing new to them.

This entry was posted in Hom: Ellen Phethean. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.