Rob Miles

The spendable fall fast
As time gain repeats,
The circle of readers
Are resting their feet.
The pushed into place
Is being taught what to do
From the old ones who know
And dictate what to do.

The leather clad riders
Roll on their way,
The rich over lunch
Have plenty to say.
The sounds from the speakers
Give chance of a choice,
The influence outcome
Makes an audible voice.

The similar individual
With his Livestrong band,
The potential offence
Of a red inked hand.
The raised single eyebrow
Of a questioning look,
As a wrong answer is given
About a verse in the book.

The slept in bunk beds
All in a row,
The flickering box
With nothing to show.
The rising steam ribbons
From a boiling pot,
Filled up with water
For tea sweet and hot.

The forgettable memories
of uneventful days,
The tick turning hands
Of time displays.
The deep delving trust
Expressed in some words,
Of singular sheep
In one of the herds.

The black burning meat
Of barbeque grills,
The half glass of water
To swallow the pills.
The poor pasted posters
To attract to a gig,
By a band with ambitions
Of making it big.