Beating The Old

Beating the Old

The day closes over

The door bar shot

As if it’s very sound

will save them from

the relentless

Night-prowlers who

prey, vulture-like

On the old and frail

 

Feeling no remorse

They pummel them into

unrecognizable

bags of smashed up bones

for a few pounds to feed their habit

Or, just because they can

 

As if, the vulnerability of the

old, irks them

in a way that only violence

alone can release them

from their compulsion

Then

home they go

to once more become

sons, fathers or daughters

until night fall calls them

again

to play the game of robbing

and beating the old