Pauper’s


Dirty feet, caked with dust
blistered and cracked, returning
from our late night food forage
lay in the same bed, of the kitchen
we share, sleeping soundlessly
the others not to rouse
in clothes worn all day
to rest I must come.

Counting sheep I succumb
five hundred counted I
and yet no sleep to bleat off
Kicking the covers we stitched
from heavy, old worn-out clothes,
I ventured out into the dark.

Before the steel black moss covered taps
I stand and stare, not to awake the rest
I must scrub clean, drenched in
cold, icy water I make do
sparkling clean I feel
using the clothes I had worn
reverse side to dry off,
into my bed I crept
slept like a Babe I did

Now awake in my fortress
to bed we must adjourn
each room fitted with it’s own bath
my cupboards I open as an aftermath
every colour of sleepwear
before my eyes I gleam

Never in my recency had I
ever slept in clothes worn during
my day nor taken a bath under
an icy cold running tap

To wrap up this bard
I am eternally grateful for
the lard in my kitchen, minus the bed
and a pauper's dream I redeem

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This Poems Story

Childhood...tracing the trajectory of my life then to now