poetry critical

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Bare room, table, stool,
two worn settees, minus fleas,
face each other.
Gas light hiss, slow burn, cool.
Turned low, covered, barely glowing.
Outside someone scrubs streets,
keeping steady rhythm.
Feet driven, clicking sound.
Greet, then march to work.
Later sat on stiff starched chairs,
wordless, cornered,
somehow diminished.
Wait for her to finish.
What is it that has no end?
Shadows throw coats sunshine days.
We creep inside the shade.
Treacle flows, porridge made,
prunes pushed away
in desultory fashion.
Hours pass, workers, thin, return.
Sky grows dim, a sin so strong
keeps us pinned while we roam.
However far we go our eyes belie,
continue to gaze, scrutinize the stool
from which you never fall.
One day your grip will slip,
leaving us mired among chains.

7 Oct 11

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Is that why you have to hold on tight to your underpants MB. This is a polite inquiry.
 — unknown