Robert Maddox-Harle writes

Scratches and Deeper Wounds

The hot bread shop breathes
warm fragrance of yeast and crust
awakening a primal urge,
a step or two
more temptations tease
coffee shop seduction
flat white, short black
Cappuccino cream
the Choice is yours.
The balmy first flesh of spring
awakens other primal urges,
everywhere temptation
false hopes for new life,
temporary appeasement of deeper needs.
Stand clear, fuck, stand clear
four pall bearers frantic,
push past,
oblivious to piercing eyes,
oblivious to the stray dog
pissing on a post.
Her thin pale body,
lies motionless,
silent
flat upon the canvas stretcher,
O.D'd, indeed.
Is she breathing?
Yes, I think
hurry, hurry,
hospital seems so far,
her bearers,
barely friends
accomplices in street life hype
full of fear and flight and fight,
and hope; hurry.
Homeless, hopeless
street tough, street wise
some not wise enough to stay alive
stand crying in the street.
The mourning penetrates their mask,
as secrets of their heart and care
flow down the gravel verge
and stain society's slate.
Her morning hit,
a simple scratch
has turned into a deeper wound.
As silent witness to this scene
of rage and life and love
I watched her die,
and wondered why

Watercolor Eyes -- Miranda Watson