Hunched over, buckled in two
Like a car in a scrap-yard crusher.
It's run a bit too long, breathing short.
Perhaps fear. Been faking engine trouble
For years.
A girl tries to sing and squeaks each note.
Forces a tune into her heart and her body,
Killing her sound into someone raking leaves
On a shoddy autumn day. She can't sing now.
Too late for music.
He's old, in one of those nice comfortable
Sort of places. Telly and tea. Toast for breakfast.
Too many bricks to lift, too many heavy boxes.
He now takes tablets to pretend he's feeling better.
Looking at the carpet.
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