 |
 |
 |
|
Hit and Run
Dead flowers, sellotaped
to a lamp post
with sympathy.
Words running into
the folds of the soggy
card. Ink-blot butterfly
growing in the corner.
Condensation gathers and
glistens, foggy on cellophane.
A cried river of tears
dripping onto old, brown
petals.
Lamp post like a beacon, glowing,
a permanent marker.
As school friends hold hands and
their breath, tip-toeing round
the dark pool of blood,
long scrubbed away but
stained in their memories,
under the bed with
the pistol crack sound of his head
splitting open
on the pavement.
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
