They flock in black
oily leathers like
outside Smithfield Market -
a congregation of waiting
a choir in a chorus of mutter and fag ash
they seem purposeless but hang about outside
the ruins of my mind - as if aware of a
time when they will be needed - called upon -
given gainful employment - put to task.
But for now they wait,
outside the iron-wrought gates.
I will not employ them.
My mind is taken up with the present and the
future. What need do I have, for memories?
Soiled, weary, grey-haired memories...
No - I do not understand their confidence,
the purr of their engines, the optimism
that there's still life in them yet.