Outside the job centre
he sells his enterprise:
a painting, his Sistine:
Miners dreaming in the cave of the politician.
To some, it looks like a sheet of black paper.
Others stop,
as if they’ve found their own
photograph in the gutter,
chatter silenced by how the painter
has captured their hunger,
the potholes of their pupils,
the blackened teeth of the cold wind.
http://www.therecusant.org.uk/#/angela-readman-poems/4544373245
