The cheap songs
In the back kitchen, on a close grey summer morning, he drinks
from a can of ESP Pils.
The garden's peat and privot musk drifts through the open door
and he nods at the wall, hearing the neighbour talk himself
through his plans; accusing, crying, singing
before throwing dull possessions around the room.
By one o'clock the windows are open
and wind bellows the nets over tobacco, plates and papers.
Nodding, smoking, looking at the wall again
as the Stones start:
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes you might just
get what you need.
Like a child searching for early words, he mouths in time,
lost and level in the drink
into the afternoon, into the night,
swaying with the cheap songs.
