They smoke–but back then everybody smoked.
Some don’t have teeth in front. East End and poor
and out, about, with wife and kids. Their hope?
They know that all they have is work and more
of it, a life of it, except for week-
end fairs–small dogs for sale, the kids all smiles,
the wife, thank God, not broken down, the bleak
streets just the neighborhood they’ve walked for miles
throughout their life, the pub, the grocer’s shop,
the butcher’s bloody block and saw dust floor,
the lines of clothes in dirty air–and not,
not one complaint. Too smart to ask for more.
A Sunday out–see friends–with family.
Then home, some hours more, and then their tea.