They talk a lot of rubbish.
They don’t clear the streets quick enough when it snows,
And get out of hand if you are not in it.
Short, fat, bald, and smoking a pipe,
Under a street lamp,
I wear orange trousers and plastic,
And I think I have the answers to poor
The Indian before me has,
Wooden beads around his neck,
And thick toes
Sticking out from open leather sandals.
The other has greasy hair,
And is very hairy,
In a turban.
They may have better ideas.
None of them are women.
evocative short poetry – words move