While Life Goes On All Around Me

It’s seven thirty, they’ve started early,
churn political expertise around in a rusty
cement mixer till it is smooth, creamy
and set into a new south faced existence.

Weary face in a timeworn van pulls up,
pours calcium into brittle bones of
daily life, his own rattled by plastic
progress; business is dead.

Lone jogger pads daily ritual to
crescendo, as a brisk breeze edges
its sharpness through the open window.

And here comes Boy Racer, dead on cue;
screeches to a tedious halt,
picks up his friend in the white shirt
with no tie.
They say he’s the clever one, Boy Racer,
can park his car on a postage stamp,

which makes me think about my life and
how, it seems, most of it fits onto a
stamp these days,
a small, watery blue one, second class,
lost in the post.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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