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
A fascinating historical perspective that could represent many such localities
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Small towns everywhere, Derrick. A desert of them.
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