For just a moment, the street lamp made him
the centre of attention. But only my attention.
A man of unknown years, and disregarded age,
hiding in the blindness of fog and night. There,
behind dark sunglasses. He’s a crumbling folly
struck down. Target practise. Cannon fodder.
He’d have cried out in protest, if he still retained
any memories of his ruination. But shit happens.
That’s what his woman used to say before she left
him sitting in a puddle, a day that turned to flood.
And that’s when all his drowning started. So now,
he wears sunglasses at midnight and sits under
the street lamp. Sits there in its cadaverous light.
And he looks up at me, gnarled veins like ancient
tree roots, and snarls that I’m blocking his light.
Margo Roby’s prompt “Ruin” –
This is my image of Mr Kroop from Bleak House