Press Lane

Steam and stains

pave the way

for the late man,

whisky breath,

yesterday’s hangover.

He has been out

hunting for headlines.

His are buried in doubles,

grasped with a tremble.

He is sought – now.

There he is, in the lane

where hustlers hide

in the falling cold.

Snap the red door,

get up the endless steps.

Front pages come this way,

squiggles and lines, tatty pages.

They are dressed, primped.

The late man does that.

A rye eye on the words,

a flick of the wrist

One thought on “Press Lane

  1. I love that ‘rye eye on the words’. Written by a man on the inside, a man of the trade I’d say, and sculptured to appear as if merely dashed off with ‘a flick of the wrist’!

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