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The Piccolo Man

written by: Martina Lynch

 

The piccolo echoed down the street
in a city where only the tired sleep

passers by morning rush fast paced
reaching destinations post haste...late

cannot consume enough coffee, XL cup
never mind the sleeping rough, homeless

man sits, head drooped against a wall
nobody paying attention at all, drunk

they think, maybe so... but he is very cold
ya know, he never asked for anything

just played his flute to the tiresome fruit
of a working day that doesn't pay, relentless

and nobody knows he won't play anymore
they don'y care, he was just as before

asleep in a world that pays no attention
to the man and his piccolo tunes

  just thought I'd mention.

Martina Lynch

Martina Lynch

Writer of poetry for a few years now, often submitting work online through poetry sites, competitions etc. Lived and worked in the Uk all my life. Left school at sixteen began work on the very day I left. I am a Black Country maiden, heart and soul. Born in 1968 aged 49 years my life began a rollercoaster from the age of four. I am a wanderlust and my work reflects who I am. The poetry I write comes from my heart the very roots of me. I am inspired by so many poets, so many favourites, and not all well known if known at all.
Martina Lynch

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