Phil Lucas

The Silence of the Suburbs

The silence of the suburbs,
  ebony still.
Coolly gazing heaven
loosely fingers
the half moon,
  and stars puff sleepily
into the shawl of the dark.

The last jet of nightfall
lumbers upwards,
grudgingly,
with 400 new adventurers
  tightly dreaming
of what will be.

And there below
is fat Jim Ferry
  rolling
from the rumble-mumble electric train.
“There’ll be a better tomorrow,”
his sozzled heart grumbles,
  and he loosens his tie
in anticipation
  of what will never come.

The half moon is hazy now
and the stars yawn,
  “it’s just another jet
in the clasping smoke of still.”
Fat Jim Ferry looks to the skies.
  “Clouds,”
he whispers,
  alone.

The silence of the suburbs,
  ebony still.

Phil Lucas © 2008

Lunchtime Black

She sits
only for an hour.
But,
there is no golden revelation
at the bottom of a snatched paper cup.
No answer
between nervous bites
from a wilted balsa wood sandwich.
Not even
a smile to the sun,
as she beats away the swarm
of office edicts,
will set her free.
  Just a hope
that she is not another face
amongst this conjurors’ madness of souls.
  That alone
may see her through.

Do What’s Good For You

“Dirty seaweed,”
mother says.
“Put it down
and eat your burger.”

Phil Lucas © 2008