Tic Tock

by Wesley Cooke
(Rowner, England)

Inwardly outwardly,

Apparently stammering.

Buck-toothed, dribbling

Mad man-mountain.

Quickened by

Who or what,

Stray dogs only know.

With hands as

Big as banana bunches,

Lugging his

Old transistor radio

In a threadbare vinyl bag.

He haunted all the

Flea markets and

Jumble sales,

In our town.

And the next.

That wild eyed

Beast of burden,

Weighed down by

Jigsaws and knick-knacks.

Got with scuffed

Bobs and pennies,

Found with fevered avarice.

By bus-stops and

Under swollen foot.

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