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Spic in uniform with a made-up smile
As if he despised what he did by rote.
The fragrant days lost their rays,
Live with the buck, tidy or not.
His kin, a leaf of the so-called stellar past,
lived on the envy of the lesser mortals
wore their badge with a chip on shoulder.
Fragrant times were their treasure trove,
so they thought; it was an afterthought.
He despised them too.
Their past also had seen the tarred brush.
His present was stellar without the stars.
He turned the mic off and the barrage!
His superior lost his voice, not the moorings.
He too shed his anguish in the barren shed.
He shared the boy’s bottled-up rage
where delivery was a made-up thanksgiving!
Did the boy see fecund days in the vicinity,
better morrow for skills idling in a corner?
The delivery boy hated to live in dreams,
pinched his skin to feel the hollow pain.
Is hope a swinging firefly in the dark? |
