Fit for Work by Harry Gallagher

I am not a silent poet

As the low tide’s quilt
is pulled back, sleeping in
on a comfy bed of silt.
Too idle to ever move again,
but fit enough for work.

Sunbathing in sleet,
lazing on paving, crazy
for loose change and
something for nothing,
like heat and horizons.

Opulent hostels, swimming
pools on landings, whose
landlords kiss away
the sobbing at midnight
by nursing plump purses.

All the too far gones
drinking to no future,
once some mother’s sons;
now unproductive units.
Are there no workhouses?

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