His Wet Cap Dripping

A sad, ugly bruise
On the leg of this land,

A pockmark,
A crooked gate closed,

Ireful and grumpy,
Dressed like an accident,

Dark rain peppering
His unwilling sighs,

High on abandon.

Stood underneath
The angry acrobatics
Of territorial crows,

Solitude fringed
With grasped bitterness,

His wet cap dripping
A tightly framed world

Where the morris men dance
Amidst peculiar tales,

All rose tinted pint pots
And idiot songs,

Make believe memories
Hand-picked and polished,

Hung between bunting
With pride never questioned;

It’s all cheese sandwich dreams
And the fear fight,

Wistfully growling
Good night.

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