Heavy with accumulated age, he

Struggled from the chair, with help, into a

Stoop, and, bowing head first and unsteady,

Walked a little way with his adviser.

Another chair to fall into, and there

Explain in ragged prose what steps he’d made

To look for full-time work that week, and where

He might obtain a newer skill or trade.

He should have been at home, perhaps in bed,

Remembering his younger, better days;

The golden, promised pathways he would tread

Pursuing love in wild and wishful ways

Now that the setting sun is all ablaze,

And gold, through silver, darkens into lead.

I’d called into the Jobcentre on Bridge Street. There I saw the old man described above: sick, tired, on his last legs, mithered, harassed, and bullied by the State.

Copyright Jan Dzaran 2013