Pocketful of souls
yet never a kind word
the whole world blind
to the miseries of rain
the unseen man
forever in the debt of
a fogged up mirror
the world is slightly easier
behind a window pane
you hide, I hide, and the
rest of us play catch
to cruel mirages
and hefty hindsight.
The mirror in the back
is not much help when
you are always looking ahead
twice towards the road
once into the oblivion
then the side mirror breaks
the change in your pocket scatters
world contracts, your rage
is suddenly your alpha
the window is thinning
walls grow bigger
and the men? They have
been here a long time
knitting and drinking
to the myths and truths
about machines and women.
Fools,
stuck in a chequers game.
A heathen poet 