By Simon Massey

Suited up he faces you –

a mortared brick away from lonely shores.
Stoic and indecipherable, his gaze meets nothing,
so he stands hatted and tied with a need to detract
attention. He is
prim, proper, dapper even.
Becoming another of the starched legion,
a briefcase away from toil at the office.
Another stranger amongst many,
wishing his could be the one to disappear
in the crowd. His tragedy to be stymied to the last,
for all his pomp and fabric cannot hide
the poor bastard
has an apple
for a face.



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