He's seen better days.
His long grey hair and beard
Give him and air of mystery, and theatre
But his clothes, torn and soiled,
Speak of the reality of his grubby life.
Alone and lonely, he has become submerged
In his grimy world, of cigarettes and booze,
Filth and decay.
He finds security in his collecting and hoarding of tit and tat.
An old fridge or cooker, a table or television,
It doesn't matter if it works, or if it is broken.
What matters is that it fills up his empty life and
And that now, it is his.
He told me of the days as a child,
In the East End of London, when he had naught.
Now he has cramped is life, is home,
With rubbish, but his rubbish.
And the irony is, that it cheats him of his comfort, his life,
It has taken the place of a bed to sleep in, or a chair to sit on.
He has become a prisoner of his squalor
It has become his addiction.
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Comments about this poem (Better Days by Elaine Battersby )
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
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