Poetry
by Phil Brown
DERELICT BY THE FITZROY
In the streetlight's naked arc
Sits a lonely, ragged man;
Like a moth out of the dark
He came by a garbage can
To his place of present sleep
Near the river running deep.
He is filthy and unshaven,
Has an old green shoulder bag;
Like an image, sadly graven,
Watch his spirits slowly sag:
Soon his soul will midnight creep
Near the river running deep.
People pace the littered pavement
Past his ancient, dozing frame;
Free in sleep of all bereavement,
Now he calls the hollow name
Of one he had, but couldn't keep -
Still the river's running deep.
Silently the dew is forming,
All his dreams will slowly die
With the coming cold of morning;
Now he sighs a dreamer's sigh
And he wakes, alone, to weep
Near the river running deep.
by Phil Brown
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