The Shabby Suit

Eight or so years ago, I wrote a poem entitled The Shabby Suit while sat in the concourse of Sheffield railway station watching the world go by. In the years that followed, events would cause me to think about the poem. On a couple of occasions I even searched for it in my boxes of scribbles – to no avail.

Earlier this morning I was having a clearout, and guess what fell out of a dog-eared notebook? A folded A4 sheet with said poem scrawled on it. Allow me to share it with you – was it worth the wait?

The Shabby Suit

Once upon a time
It was a source of pride
It indicated that he was
Getting ahead,
That he was important
Somebody;
He wore a tie.

I see him today on the
First delicate,
Beautiful
Day of spring.
Young students sharing discoveries
In scruffy jeans
Hobos smiling and observing
Beauty via a can
Of beer.

He regards the love of others
And envies it.
For the thing that
Once meant so much
To him and
Defined his
Existence
Is now threadbare and
Worn.

He has fallen out of love
With its symbolism
It is old and grey
Like the man himself
And he realises
There’s nothing else.

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