Francis Thompson
Posted: 12 Aug 2017, 21:33
Francis Thompson
He knew the streets of London
as well as he knew the dirty
creases of his palms. He scraped by
selling matches--opium
and literature preferable
to food.
He scribbled poems on bits
of paper, stuffing them
in grimy pockets to try
and keep warm.
How could he sleep? The cold’s knives
were as dangerous as any ex-con
who had been turned away
from a charity's cot.
Exhausted, a failure, depression
weighed on Francis
more than his rain sodden clothes.
Without money to buy laudanum
even on the driest of nights
he could be found under a bridge,
shivering as if he were standing
under a sky's sluicing plunge
of yet another winter
rain.
He knew the streets of London
as well as he knew the dirty
creases of his palms. He scraped by
selling matches--opium
and literature preferable
to food.
He scribbled poems on bits
of paper, stuffing them
in grimy pockets to try
and keep warm.
How could he sleep? The cold’s knives
were as dangerous as any ex-con
who had been turned away
from a charity's cot.
Exhausted, a failure, depression
weighed on Francis
more than his rain sodden clothes.
Without money to buy laudanum
even on the driest of nights
he could be found under a bridge,
shivering as if he were standing
under a sky's sluicing plunge
of yet another winter
rain.