Go to bed smitty, do us a favour mate. Tell your story walking,...

“A dull boy”

My dad owns a business
and sometimes the workers
will come around early in the
mornings and pick weeds for
extra cash.

I see them out there
from my bed room window as i
put on my overalls
and hide empty wine bottles
underneath my
bed.

Their smokes
like clouds in the morning
and their
shakey old hands
full of crushed
little
flowers.

At the factory there is a bullet
Hole in the clock somewhere
Between the number
three and
The hour hand.

The office desk has a tube
Of anusol that is covered in dust
And an old issue of people
Magazine.

Nothing profound
or enlightening,
simply
the average happenings
of an average morning.

Old men
shooting at clocks
and picking flowers
for a few bucks
on their way
to death

or a beer at the
local
bar

where every
one waits
for their
arrival

and a conversation
that is a little less
sad,
than the stories
they sing to
them selves.