Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

Spare Time

We walk over the pavements that display

a crude mosaic of chewing gum, needles

and half dead pigeons.

I know that mountains reside here, that

fields now entombed with concrete offer

a catacomb only visible through aged eyes.

As our coats hang loose, the change in

our pockets jangle, just enough ammo to

pass this free time, that we never hold

sacred enough.

It now frees us momentarily from the iron traps

that have become far more comfortable than

we ever anticipated.

No need now for those once consistent

breakouts, as the waters now run at our pace,

not theirs.

Morning Rush

That afternoon pacing towards work, in

frantic lateness I saw the gathered crowds.

He was spread across the curb; ironed

polo shirt, clean shaved, gelled hair,

knife wound in his left side.

The red river at his feet seemed to glisten,

reflecting the torrid tale of the hour previous,

as the air thickened within the crowd, like

a fog with the power to deafen as well as blind.

The crowd then dispersed, no two eyes meeting,

chatter suddenly erupted, as the help arrived

neither asking for or gaining assistance.

Within time's jaws we left him, in that waiting

room of ours, our responsibilities waving their

flags at yet another parade of delays.

Curtains

You hang oblivious, dust encrusted, a foul design

job, left over by previous irresponsible occupiers.

Hanging limp, like flaked skin, your rail fractured

like a soot covered broken spine.

When appropriate wipe away tears on your ends,

that are soaked into your fabric, and drank with gusto.

The cracked windows know you all to well, know

your almost smug like presence is really just

a cover for the secrets you hold.

And for all your time there, tying up the room,

you still don't fit the windows.