Ink

The boy did Faulkner to perfection,

His marks upon the page make it truth.

‘Fast-track’ scored upon his forehead and accent,

To the gates he came, bearing the packed lunch

Of the elite; carrying cucumber in place of corned beef.

 

Those in the lamplight, with their snug wedding rings

And supermarket suits, thought of Princes usurped

When he passed them by, their minds running

To pawn-shop pearls and average eateries.

The boy thought of second-hand women.

 

Those above the rabble, with their crystal panes

And paint encrusted parking spaces,

Thought of Alexander when he passed them by,

Their minds running to Rome and retirement funds.

The boy thought of a cat sitting sans breakfast.

 

Through the halls he’d walk, with expensive shoes

Made of Father’s success and a jaw-line made of marble.

The men whose names lay un-followed by letters

Thought of the hands upon the wall and the eyes above.

The boy thought of Olympic swimmers

And the impact of broken latex.

 

He killed a man in less than a day;

A poor bastard with time instead of ink.

He thought of words and eyes as he passed,

His mind running to measure time spent.

The boy thought of aurochs, of angels,

And the secret of durable pigments.

Chris.McDonald@theoohtray.com