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He Loves the Sound of Breaking Glass
 
Thereís this boy
or rather thereís this man
he lives next door
and he wanders round the green
he talks to everyone as if they care
he even talks to me
 
a polite conversation
like a tea dance
his voice as measured
as his in-toeing steps
the tone is low belying chaos
he shares it with the street
 
he searches for glass
as he wanders round the green
his hanging head of circuits
cut short by a justice
it throws him to the ground
the missing teeth: his sacrifice
the blood: his sins redeemed
 
itís so late
or rather itís too late
two bottles asleep
laid down with his passion
a broken silence
and it hurts to care
 
my early morning sweep
we both search for bottles
as we wander round the green
I donít want to meet him
I just want to beat him to the glass
the obsessions that leave us all
shattered

Susan Wilson
 

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them.

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