ford street remains

ford street starts in the middle
at the post office tower
with the clock
that looks four ways

it’s the dolphin café
that’s tried to change
but always looks tired in the week
that follows each facelift

it used to be a barber shop
but now it’s empty space
the man with the scissors
is rotting in a nursing home

a middle aged gay-boy
in sailor pants
serves weak coffee and a line of chat
tell you everything you’d ever want to know
about ford street

the knick-knack’s for sale

the art co-op
think they own the show

and the butcher doesn’t
always keep his meat well

al fresco this
bistro that
home-made sausages and wine
the street has started acting like
it’s got a reputation

but I remember staring out
from the post office steps
quiet as my grave
from the depth of saturday night

except for the noise in my head
that sounded like a soul
trying to break out
get away

and the only surprise
to wake on sunday
still drunk in my thoughts
but alive again
wondering if ford street
was the best I could do

hurry to escape it
carry it
the rest of my life

ford street ends
at memorial park
with the fountain that’s never worked
just over the road
from a hundred year old prison

and it ends up the hill at the church
that’s a throwback to a castle
in olde england

ring the bells
ring those bloody bells
call your sheep
back home to pray

for the souls of the saved
are the souls of the damned
are the children that escaped

they’re the wretched remains
of those
who lacked imagination
to recognise their own dying

ford street was

ford street is

ford street

---

© Frank Prem, 2009

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