Before the Sun, we woke,
Ate not-enough breakfast of warm oats,
And laced on cracked blister-shoes.
The right shoe had a hole, broken lace.
Dawn-drowned gaslights on the dusty way
Through the tenements and poverty.
We yawned against yesterday’s pain
And smeared yesterday’s dirt on our faces.
You wanted to play, but the whistle called
Everyday, you stooped like grandmother
Mary, to her we pleaded for some relief
We pleaded to God, but got no Graces.
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.