A Prayer for the Loners

The dejected men,
the lone voices,
slip away
in this seaside rain.
Their words shudder to a standstill
in dismal corners.
Frightened to shout,
they cower
behind quivering faces.
No one listens
to their memories crying.
There seems no point
in this democratic deficit.
For years, they just shuffle along,
hopeless
in their financial innocence.
They do have names
that no lovers pronounce.
They flit between stools,
miss out on gales of laughter.
Who cares for them?
Nobody in Whitley Bay
or Katwijk,
that’s for sure.
These wayside fellows
might as well be in a saddos’ heaven
for all it matters
in the grey world’s backwaters.
Life has bruised them,
dashed them.
Bones flake into the night.
I feel like handing them all loud-hailers to release their oppressed passion, to move them to scream red murder at their leaders - those they never voted for; those who think they’re something, some thing special, grand.
For, in the end,
I am on the side of these stooped lamenters, the lonely old boys with a grievance about caring and the uncaring; about power, and how switched off this government is from the isolated, from the agitated, from the trembling , the disenfranchised drinkers of sadness.