The Days of Angry by Frank Beltrano

I remember
The days of angry.
City speed for
Inches of advantage
The rush and fuss
Of billing nine or nine and a half hours
Into eight-hour days
Overtime racoons
On fences
Down dark alleyways
Midnights motoring away from
Mangled mortise cylinders
Pager calls
Dim lit halls
Walkie talkie
Locksmith lingo
Knocking on doors
Locking up crack houses
Showing respect for whores
Taking orders from pimps
Home to read
Politically correct fairy tales
And sometimes to cry for tired
Wishing sleep
Shaking, still at the wheel
Of a parked truck
No peace, no luck
But big pay cheques

Frank comes to our workshops in London and Woodstock. A longer version of this poem was originally published in Ascent Aspirations. (Current issue here: http://www.ascentaspirations.ca/tableofcontents.htm)