Meathead

It’s a northern Tuesday,
The high street
Nuzzles gloom,

Kids’ cries echo,

Outside the local bakery
A meathead flings
His pasty crust to the floor,

The weather turns,

Rain hurls from the grey,
Unsheathing its chaos,
Drenching in blurs

Like a mighty conclusion.

A barbaric wind
Whips up hedgerows
And spits out buds,

Birds collide,

Dazed traffic skis
Across flooded roads
And roofs rattle,

Bedlam cackles and dazzles,

Something’s unravelled
Simple but harrowed
And the meathead

Is soaking in doubts.

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