Pale Sun

The pale sun on your face
is listless apathy,
forget your woes for
they are worms
gnawing into your inner
blight.

He couldn't forget
the slights,
the insignificance,
where he forgot himself
and became another necktie,
an endless coffee break.

When the cars raced down
housing commission streets
his blood boiled and testosterone freaked,
but it whimpered to an end,
a world sterile,
old.

Pictures of other times,
sound tracks of other lives,
better forgotten
better gone,
not you nor me.