Phil Lucas

Faithful honey melon sun
flickers bullion through lazy haze.
But woe, woe, the FTSE is down.
...

The silence of the suburbs,
ebony still.
Coolly gazing heaven
loosely fingers
...

...

I see them all the time,
snatching a quick drink
between sales,
meetings
...

A storm is grating the ocean,
but in the café
an elderly couple are warm with now.
They sit mostly silent,
...

I
asked
the
check
...

I joined
Workaholics Anonymous
but found myself
staying late
...

The shore relaxes
as the setting summer sun
follows the tramp home
of barmy burnt beach lovers
...

I don’t have to look forward to a Friday
or face the melancholy truce of a Sunday Eve.
No more counting weekend hours
till the dreaded bell of Death Monday tolls.
...

Across the quay
sit
discarded old woman.
Saggy sea-beat sacks of flesh,
...

I’m just the guy eating noodles.
Not much to see here,
except a guy eating noodles.
Not much to consider here
...

If one deems to consider marvels,
think this numinous force
we call energy.
So touching in its silent grandeur,
...

So tiny
these soggy clothes I take out of the machine
and lightly hang up to dry.
Comic it would be,
...

He reads
every page
of every newspaper
every day.
...

A suburban evening
and a casual cigarette in the garden.
Can there be more bliss?
...

“Seagulls are the souls of dead sailors, ”
she said.
So now,
I give to each feathered mariner
...

There are always
thirty dozy minutes.
A private time to sizzle
on an electric blanket
...

Every day,
the Sudoku man
sits alone
at a dusty splinter table
...

Nothing left to say
except the words that come
when love dies.
That love is
...

Pigeons
on the roadside
pecking for a bargain,
plumping up
...