Transparent Words - Poetry

Stuart Nunn
Sunday morning - England
The newsagent’s assistant scans the heavy papers. She doesn’t see the headlines spelling disaster.
The manager of the under-twelves greets his boys’ fathers. They want to get rid of him.
The vicar reads over his sermon one more time. His boiled egg starts to go hard, his toast is cold.
The cleaner has been hoovering offices all night. She longs for sleep; her husband is waiting.
The gardener reviews his tasks from the bedroom window.
The custody sergeant checks his sleeping prisoners through the clanging hatch. The wife-beater stares at the floor between his feet.
The sleepy barman hauls up replacement alco-pops from the cellar.
The would-be rock guitarist plugs into his dad’s garage.
The black church-goer in her finery hugs to herself the thought of ecstasy to come.
The Slovene in B&Q tries to remember what co-axial cable is.
The dutiful son drives up the M42, hoping his mother hasn’t tried again to change her light bulb.
The gay couple tuck in to the full English in Old Compton St. Tomorrow, one of them must have his regular blood test.
In the shopping mall, the girl in the Information Desk dreams of what she did last night.
The accountant juggles resistant figures. They must come right by tomorrow morning.
The athlete pounds his country miles hoping the twinge in his hamstring’s nothing.
The confirmed bachelor makes scrambled egg with just two slices of toast.
The DJ plays Unchained Melody for Michelle and Dave who’ve had their problems but love each other to bits.
The homeless man moves his pitch from shop doorway to underpass.
The imam stands with the old men on the street corner. “What is the youth coming to?”
The addict shivers through suburban streets, wondering where his next comfort will come from.


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