Empty bottles roll along dismal streeets, and ulcered gums lose blackened teeth. We arrive at the Victoria Bridge avoiding dreary derelicts, sprawling, crawling. Human stepeping stones, pawns leding to riches where accents are the rulers. Such eloquent screams boom as cannons from those righeous few who rule the land. Yet cannot compete with the wailings of ships' forg horns, worker's cries for equality.
Laughter squeaks to clinkings of glasses overflowing with quiet measured merriment.
Frost melts for a second and skeletons pay homage to Time, to Auld Lang Syne. We gulp in gallons for those lost years when freedom could have belonged to us. Thick mucous sticks in our throats and in our lungs choking us as we gasp for breath. Sandra Staas was born in Scotland, but lives in the United States. You can find another poem and photograph by her at this site.