We All Knew
All of us knew
that he was 65
years old
with a dozen or
more screws in
his lower spine
and hands like
arthritic claws and
that he was
street-homeless;
we all knew this
and did nothing
as he hobbled
away into the
freezing rain to
go live back on
the streets,
all of us knew this
and we did nothing
because a policy
stated we should
do so; he didn’t
meet an invented
criteria of need
and we watched him
walking away
we all knew
and felt fucking
useless because
some stuffed asshole
somewhere, being
paid handsomely,
made some
decisions, not
knowing of anything
outside of a
precious fucking
budget;
we all knew
and when he was out
of sight
we all knew
that he’d still
be here
right with us.
John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; his poems have appeared widely in the small press and Literary Online Journals; Bareback Lit; Red Fez; Dead Snakes; Chicago Record; Underground Books; Mad Swirl; Poetic Diversity; The Commonline Journal; Yellow Mama; Zombie Logic Review; Poetry Super Highway; The Clockwise Cat; Your One Phone Call; Ink Sweat & Tears; Napalam and Novocain; Bold Monkey; Horror Sleaze and Trash; Outsider Poetry; Hastings Online Times; The Beatnik Cowboy and upcoming work appearing in Locust Magazine, The Legendary; Message In A Bottle; The Sentinel Literary quarterly; Cavalcade Of Stars. He is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he likes to drink wine and listen to quietness
