Paul Sutton
Last Rites
They come to clean the last blood from the cobbles,
father and son,
shaken awake on the first tram of the day;
before the shutters are thrown open,
before the coffee urns begin to steam.
The low place, beside the prison,
which yesterday's crowd have left untouched,
where the sun has dried any traces of red
into small flakes like old paint on a toy.
The man uses a wire brush,
methodically working the slops into foam.
The coagulated material is loosened
then flows - farewell L'Enfant
in grey/red bubbles down a drain.
The young boy swings the steaming water,
twists his head from the stinging carbolic.
Page(s) 30
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