Wednesday is the saddest day
loud in their discontent
is a passing clutch of handbags
in a loud gossip of women.
The day is a snivelling man
in a coughing, shuffling stain
of wrinkled grey raincoats
taken root and slowly rusting.
Stranded in the embracing days
of here and now. Thin laughter
winding weakly down cool passageways
mocks time and age. And after.
Is God there? In that crumpled air
of shrunken faces
and grey shrivelled hair
with the watching windows misting?
In an antiseptic silence
it`s said he was seen once
when he stood outside entranced
eyes unsure
and waiting
always waiting.


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