Solo.

The hail beats the tin roof of this old house
like a previous century stoning
the ice crashing on the corrugated steel
is reminiscent of a
Rick Allen solo
The idiot in me keeps looking up
as if the steel pressed ceiling is taking the beating
The angle these golf ball icicles are coming at
concerns the large glass window panes
they look like they'll shake themselves
into cracks of disaster across
the wooden floor boards

I fold myself into a ball
on the leather couch
covered in last nights jacket
and comforted by my latest Amazon acquisition
"Mockingbird Wish Me Luck"
I suffer the noise to read magnificence
then realise

[...] Read more

poem by Alistair Plint
Added by Poetry Lover
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