Underground Room

Trying not to disturb sleeping madness

In my little underground welfare room

Drinking yesterday away and hiding from today in my typewriter

I look into a black hole of  depression

Typing out a lost life spent in society’s wasteland

Hating myself with evidence

and yes you also

I head out into the dark rains of January

In steel boots to the slave labour pool

I walk into a stale-aired office to put my mark on the worksheet

The place is packed like rotting sardines

and old man sleeping in his his workboots has pissed himself

Moving seats

As I watch in disbelief

While skinny rat-faced drug atticts get all the jobs

I end up on a construction site making $8 an hour

Working beside some kid half my age

He tells me he’s making $22.50 an hour

With hated eyes on me

Society has tried to stop me from becoming a loser

Not understanding

It’s part of my destiny

It hangs it’s heavy signs on me as I march through rush hour

Heading for the downtown Eastside

Just to pick up a cheque for $64 minus the $12 goverment fee

I head now for the bar

Sit in a dirty fish bowl smoking room

In the corner behind blue eyes

With pen, paper and write down sleeping madness of poetry.


Copyright © 2009 and 2017 by Henry Doyle

Published in Geist Magazine and in Thursdays,2.  These Words: Writings from the Carnegie.Edited by Elee Krajiii Gardiner and John Mikhail Asfour, Otter Press,Vancouver, BC.  www.thursdayspoemandprose.ca


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