Two days after, <br />when they'd cleared away the mangled <br />meaningless twist of metal, <br />familiar red paint smeared with oily black, <br />its intended destination still proclaimed, <br />I passed the place on business <br />and walked more slowly <br />avoiding the eyes of others <br />in case they imagined in my eyes <br />or I in theirs, <br />some falsity, some failure of the mind, <br />some lack of the appropriate emotion, <br />whatever that might be - <br />almost a guilt acquired <br />in some complicity <br /> <br />In the gutter, a glove, brown, damp, like a hand, <br />lying on its back, its fingers slightly curled <br />as if in mute request <br />for a reason <br /> <br />but to whom, now, to return it?<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0013-aftermath-london-july-7-2005/
