Local Resident (1)
The tombstones look like
toys in the playroom
when the bored children
have scattered them across the floor.
Leaning against the churchyard fence
he shakes the tin can with its few coins,
keeping time to his tuneless tin whistle.
Crazy perhaps,
he sings a song no one can recognize.
Quickly we pass his spot,
our purposeful walk, solid citizen,
averting our gaze.
Some give alms
consider fearfully
what his life is, was,
and how it will go on.
No end to defenceless sleeping strays.
And if we scattered coins across the square,
glazing the bricks with gold,
would all the beggars rise in glory,
satisfied and content?
Local Resident (2)
The tombstones look like
toys in the playroom
when the bored children
have scattered them across the floor.
Leaning against the churchyard fence
he shakes the tin can with its few coins,
keeping time to his tuneless tin whistle.
Crazy perhaps,
he sings a song no one can recognize.
No end to sleeping strays.
And if we scattered coins across the square,
glazing the bricks with gold,
would all the beggars rise in glory,
satisfied and content?
Lari Smith