The Way I Was Taught

Ought to get back –

The way I was taught –

On the horse that’s

Not a horse;

Get something to

Put by in the bank

That’s not a bank.

To remind myself

That the road that’s paved

With gold is walked by

Saints and sinners

As well as those

That have never noticed.

Shuffle of White Wings.

Fighting cold, fighting cramp,

Seeking shelter in the back of

A windowless morning cold car.

Greedily shovelling yesterday’s grease

Into a care-starved face;

Needing to put bread into a

Bank called tomorrow –

The one she didn’t believe in,

The one that grew too close,

Too damned fast.

She is aware of the shuffle

Of clean white wings,

But can’t decide:

Is it an angel calling?

Dead-eye, black head gull?

Or her gone-gone baby?