The
Weekly Ritual
Those
carved, steel doors where we queued,
our
feet and jaws twitching like spider legs,
our
fresh garments slightly ill fitting, but still
fit
for purpose.
Avoiding
eye contact at the entrance, those
oversized
hands grabbing our feet, like crows
to
the foil. We open those doors to the false
smoke
and light.
We
swagger on matchstick legs, our banter about
as
confident as our walk. We only shuffle within
packs,
in which we remain incandescent, without
breaking
character.
Towards
the end, shuffling like robots, our mouths
and
minds dry. We exit confident we have left our
mark.
Our presence only to be muttered in whispers
by
no one but ourselves.
Jonathan Butcher
Jonathan
Butcher has had work appear in various publications both online and in print
including: Outlaw Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, Picaroon Poetry, Popshot, The
Transnational, The Morning Star, Ink, Sweat &Tears, Plastic Futures and
others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' was published by Flutter Press. He
lives in Sheffield, England.
Tags:
Poetry