inside John Steineck
nearly 100 years ago
the sun sets somewhere in Wales
cuts itself on the sharp of a mountain
sinks bleeding
here though over Delhi
the sun sets smiling
sinks happy job done
beneath the whole of life
puts to bed sighing
the fat man beside the road
choking on the traffic both arms in the air
turning slowly
he’s getting measured for a new suit
the woman in the scarf shop
young, beautiful, forever smiling
dead at 27 leaving here a son
the dog with its smiling face deep in a bucket of milk
the soft cows
the birthings and the dyings
the endless, careless carings
the one for the other
the right hand for the left
she puts to rest the sweet sweet scoundrels
and the colours of their schemes
for yet another day