Alone
They mingle over the mangle,
bicker over the bike,
and how I lost
my life.
They scuttle around the scooter,
whisper ‘who does he know?’
as I’m sprawled out,
alone.
My face is crushed with crusty blood,
dust shames my bone-white shirt-
I don’t mean to
disturb.
I watch them as they walk away,
the bike goes for repair.
They know there’s life in that bike yet,
not in my stony stare.
No need for them
to care.
Copyright © Jenny Smith | Year Posted 2011
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