The Body Politic

Beneath the empty swing of a barren pub sign,

surrounded by his own scattered fag ash,

sits, chinless, a man with more collar than neck.

Within each red and in every black stripe of tailored shirt lies

a column of smouldering plus and ashen minus. 

He's looking left on a ‘look right’ kerbstone,

his face a bullet 

hammered into a shining coin.

The heat and the rubbish from the street swirl,

massage his temple, move his thoughts to the muse

in your wallet.

He's sat alone,

Rodin's forgotten son,

red-braced for the banker's revolution,

a lonely thinker,

money on his mind. 

Bastard Atlas holding up the world.

He's at 100 whilst I'm in reverse,

stood there,

with the generations of fag ends at his feet.