Sunday Morning.

On the pavement, a phone

Screen cracked but ringing still, still ringing,

Tinny voices calling to the sun

On the pavement

the conversation with a loved one, dying.

 

On the pavement, nestled beneath leaves, a shoe

Heel broken and leather scuffed,

Small flakes of fake black curling in the sun

On the pavement

the smell of familiar skin, dying.

 

On the pavement, a condom

Used and wet, split open by the small grey stones,

Creamy liquid drying in the sun

On the pavement,

the life of an unborn child, dying.

Author's Note

This is a ramble about what the streets outside say a club, or a pub or whatever, look like early Sunday morning. I'm not too sure I like the rigidity of the structure.

Reviews

[Luther]

i only have time for one right now. i picked this. it's short. t's also very good. very 'gritty realist'. kinda the scene i'm digging. i enjoyed. it's good from start to end. good show. xx

[Coyote Poetry]

Would be a sad morning to find a unborn child. Poem moved like music. I like the story. The description was very good to a poem with a sad poem that does happen in this life in many places.
Coyote