-From another thread by Sylvia:Hi Lori!
I did nominate John McLeod's poem, Tom a long time ago.
Hugs to all!
Tom, trapped in a world of smug acceptance.
The illiterate soul waiting
for Saturday and yester-years cartoons.
Tom, neurons strained by dim voltage,
pressured and screwed down to acceptance of no acceptance.
Existence is a blank page.
Institutional remedies reflect featured smiles,
and pats of good boy sentiments.
Good for whom?
Not for Tom.
Tom is an alcoholic—wants out for a drink.
He sits in the foyer… helping out where he can.
He craves a schooner.
He can see in his “minds-eye” the grey misty glass and the frothy head.
“No, Tom you cannot go out—no bus trips for you”.
“You sit in your chair and do something.”
He gives a smirk; can’t wait for Saturday.
John Macleod © 2012