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