The Man in the Bookies

Elaine Speakman

Every tiny blue pen is neatly laid
Every blue edged pad lined up straight
Every blue and white brochure tucked squarely in its place
He comes out often from behind the spotless blue glass
To do it all over again
And again as the punters leave
Crumpled losings littering the blue chequered floor
Only the winning slips disappearing out the door
Taken home likely, to show their mates
That there is profit in the sport of kings
Whilst the man in the bookies kneels with a blue brush and pan
To sweep up their blues and their discarded dreams
Over and over again.

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