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They trudge around slowly,
Coughing, hacking, snuffing,
Their weary bodies aching,
Betraying their chronological age.
Faces lined deeply,
Waxen and somehow off-colour.
Eyes glossy, dull and vacant,
Dutifully going about the mundane,
Unaware.
The promise of good, easy money
Has taken so much
And given so little.
Their world shrinking,
Every generation, smaller,
Hopes and dreams silently quashed,
Inch by inch, without notice
Until the only dream worth having
Is “getting your name in”.
If it’s good enough for Daddy,
It’s plenty good for me,
If it’s still here,
There’s been talk,
Fingers crossed.
Such is life in an old mill town.
Originally published at https://vocal.media.
