'Express and Star! ' <br />He calls unto the shoppers passing by, <br />Peering from his wooden hut <br />That dwells beside the bank. <br /> <br />The headlines trapped behind the gauze <br />Lie rippled by the damp, <br />The ink does run like fading tears <br />The town does gently weep. <br /> <br />So many years he's been there <br />A familiar face to all, <br />Yet carries on within <br />The fading twilight of his life. <br /> <br />His face is almost hidden <br />By a woollen hat and scarf, <br />As he wipes away the raindrops <br />From the spectacles he wears. <br /> <br />He looks unto the slated skies <br />Then mutters to himself, <br />And watches people heading home <br />And yet he has to stay. <br /> <br />Behind the pile of papers <br />Stacked upon the counter there, <br />Beneath a smooth and heavy stone <br />He uses as a weight. <br /> <br />As still the bitter wind does blow <br />That offers no remorse, <br />He calls again with all his strength <br />Into the evening air. <br /> <br />'Express and Star! ' <br />Yet no one stops to buy one from his stall, <br />A street of blank expressions 'neath <br />The vast umbrella crowd. <br /> <br />Confined within that wooden hut <br />From which there's no escape, <br />He stamps his feet to keep them warm <br />Then rubs his weary hands. <br /> <br />The pigeons keep him company <br />Or else he'd be alone, <br />To stare into the darkness <br />Till the shutter does come down.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-newspaper-seller/
