SKP

   

the hat was a little too smug
the morning turned into a bug
with my freehand i waveddown a fastspeeding car and
poured into the door from a jug

the morning incredibly thin
the sun scuttled up with a grin
the black leather bag with its money and buckles
hung grasped by the scruff in the wind

the driver spun round in his seat
controlling the beast with his feet
his face looked sarcastic but covered with plastic
his tung was a sprung slab of meat

i was sprawled in the back of the cab
like a lazy and arrogant crab
i would sit sigh and smoke and i'd frown at the bloke
and hark half and ear on his yab

going we were going to get
throwing my caution at sun set
escapee of the entry fee
breathing the air slippery wet

this poem is called S.K.P. like “escapee”. it’s written about a non-story i lived or imagined in sydney australia. when it rained i felt something special there.



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