The Rag And Bone Man
AnyOld rags, he shouts out loud
The Rag and Bone Man
Through fog and dusk, he comes around,
The rag and bone man, coat earth-brown.
His cart creaks slow, his horse’s pace,
Two shadows moving, lost in grace.
With brassy bell and soft, hoarse cry,
He calls beneath the morning sky,
His voice a part of city’s hum,
Where all things lost and broken come.
Old kettles, chairs, a cracked mirror’s gleam,
The remnants of another’s dream.
Bits of metal, scraps of lace,
All find their home in his embrace.
His horse plods on, its steps grown old,
Through cobbled streets both damp and cold,
Loyal and steady, nose to ground,
As if each step, it knew its sound.
They pass unnoticed most of all,
A ghostly pair by warehouse wall,
But every day they trudge alone,
The rag and bone man, earth and bone.
And when the night enfolds the street,
The city’s cast-offs at his feet,
The rag and bone man fades away—
Until the break of another day.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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1:49am
4/16/25 1:49am I want to breathe death in my larynx and feel loose change in the torn and raggedy pockets of my mother’s cardigan. The water is next to the bed. It’s not cold and never will be. So I guess what’s left is us; we will walk with crooked feet on a path carved by ancient societies. You will borrow my shoes. I will taste vengeance in my tea and convince myself it’s good for my liver. Coffee is fine too. Yes, that’s all. I will think about how I want to kiss you and, the clouds, they will rise to space, and leaves, they will glue their limbs back together. The sun has been out for weeks. This screw isn’t any looser than when I bought it. But I will wake up and I will be in the ship that splits in two and slide my sullen palms across its tundric pillow. I never took swimming lessons so whatever happens is meant to be. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, I want to lie nude in wildflowers with ants who build colonies and worms who can’t see. You have a problem with textures. You can’t help it. I could try to tell you things, like how I want my children to understand how little everything is and to not be afraid of the giant fingers that grab at sewing needles in their dreams. I could say it always scared me. It’s just not right. But listen, back to it: I want to indulge in passion and binge affection. Is it a sin if it helps? I will endure the things I am given and inculcate everyone around me to do the same. Do five laps around the block before you respond, whatever helps. I will tell you I want harmony to be palpable and wheels of recognition to be locked in an imperishable gear. Refill the pot if it’s empty. What I want has nothing to do with me. Diagonal tile is cold, you know, and my hair gets crunchy after too long out there. I want this lesson to end.
By Olivia Dodge7 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Thank you
You know if one can make money as a rag man why not it cleans up the environment. Good work.