The burning moonlight strikes
on plastic bags that shake
For the howling wind suggests
The boys will not be late.
The residents they sighed,
For they never could delay,
The Old Guard’s final march
Down old Mocha Parade.
They cruised down that wide open boulevard
With the urgency
Of men walking toward a certain fate.
Along the way,
stopping in each murky storefront reflection
To examine their all-conditions fabrics
And the technicalities and nuances
Of their tired eyes and fading looks.
As they continued down,
More windows slammed and shuttered.
Their protests began to grow.
‘Can’t get rid of me ya know pal.
I was a real somebody ya know!’
This-of course, believe me, absolutely, was the case.
They did not leave the moment
With a bang, or with disgrace.
For a time that felt forever
And Disappeared so fast
They’re the bollocks of yesterday.
They were the keepers of the past.
They’re desperate now, their only path will soon come to its end.
And they are so quickly dismissed,
by those new hip residents
On the MP, as they have taken to calling it
As if it weren’t short enough already?
The new kids hardly gave them a look,
Perhaps because they could not risk
seeing their own garments of rebellion,
Adorning the bygone lepers,
Except it’s the original, before they re-released them.
If only they had listened to the has-beens on the street
They might have found the truth.
Despite the bluster and insecurity
The has-beens had a clue.
The thing that takes you off your perch,
That drags you kicking and screaming into fading memory…
Out of the bloody exciting moment;
It is not justice, or some form of fair play,
But time.
We are king of the castle
for the time it takes to notice.
So when the Old Guard next arrives,
Give them a smile or wave,
For one day
it’ll be you,
that walks in twilight
Down the silent Mocha Parade.
By Samuel Wake