the doomsday man

 

surprisingly enough

each new day finds you

sandwiched here

between Burger king

and vacant lot -

thrice times woe man with

your brimstone smile.

slow dog-paddling

against the apathetic tide

that scours

these caves of Arndale.

your hand a flush

of trump card pamphlets,

useless

in this game

of patience;

black aces of repentance

neatly sidestepped

as the shoppers gamble

on CD’s and chocolates

like there is no tomorrow,

with secret hopes that “nigh”

is more than lifetimes

and “last few days

everything must go”

is not too literal.

you glower at the bored youths

and their

see you tomorrow

taunts,

before waddling home

to yet another last supper

of your bread and Buckfast life.

because each evening

is your Friday night

and your unexpected mornings

always Mondays.

no room in this life for predictions

of Michael

Fish

or pronouncements

of the Radio Times,

and nothing in for breakfast as you’re

opti-pessimistically

dreaming down the heavens

for the doubting Thomases.

and that one day

just one day

through the Saturday morning drizzle will come tremors

off the Richter scale

and a rain of fire

to flatten their umbrellas.

you will dance

and as they run for cover

punch the air

and shout -

 

“I fucking told you so!”