THE RED BRICK HOUSE.

In ruins, the large, old , tumbled down red brick house,
retains, one last room.
In its day it has sheltered many, and today shelters  three,
homeless men from cold and rain.

A striped, double mattress, spews stuffing, half sags,
against a stained, splintered plaster wall.
Rags, old newspapers, smashed glass,
litter the filthy floor.
In a corner, a mound of mouldy blankets
slowly slips, to reveal, a bashed, bloodied, torn face,
with swollen black lids. Through the puffed slits, eyes stare and stare.

Half on the mattress are seated two men.
Their strong legs stuck straight out in front,
and their stout hobnailed boots, with the thick soles,
are laced,  good and tight. The men leer at the two women,
in front of them, sneer at the out stretched tray with its, chunks of
bread filled with ham, and mugs of hot coffee.

Through the open door streams sunlight,
and the sound of traffic, until, the man with the large,
scraped, bloodied knuckles, kicks it shut, good and  tight,
shuts out life and light.

With a smirk, he snarls 'Let's kill them both, what about it boys?'
She feels for the smooth round handle of the door, at her back,
it cups, clicks and turns in her palm,
opens to the sound of  safety, sun and traffic.

Another bizarre scene has taken up residence in the
back of her brain, it too, like the almost demolished face,
is  battered, bruised, bloodied, and near destroyed, from too many,
petrified memories, from too many lashes of the tongue.

Tushie   1974