off to the poorhouse one must go

poem

I was existing

in a poorhouse with

the dying men

who coughed sounds

heard when others

mourn death.

i was in

a windowless room

one without comfort

for humans

but enough flesh

to fatten rats.

I had been exiled, you see

from communities:

working-class drinkers

well to dos

with trilbies and sticks—

and of course,

elites with double chins.

-

I was in the poorhouse—

not by choice, you see

more by an order

handed down to me

like a criminal sentence

by a judge with dodgy wig

and pink cheeks

blossomed by

the golden bottle.

-