Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Monday, 19 September 2011
Truly lost
He was in a city outskirts shop doorway
Head in his hands he sat befuddled
The drink had hold of him
He clutched his navy blue carrier bag
No amount of explanation
Would he take in on this night
This night
That was only yet in it's late afternoon stage
I won't ever see him again
Neither wonder at his whereabouts
Except for through these few words:
Adios amigo
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