When someone bleeds and it´s not you

Cornered by what looks like a really young, really defiant sort of pimp-shaped thug of a gun

Multiplied by windows and glass shields and fearful pupils of bystanders

He, most probably, in search of a fun time, meaning agony for someone else

Something like the intriguing kind of mayhem when someone bleeds but it´s not you

Bowing down, or is it looking up? I have lost control of interpretation of what is what

So there he goes at it, making his way through well-honed passages of verbal attack

Right in my face, from a very, very short distance off, hardly not touching my nose

Which, if this was something else, just a little different set-up, would be close to romantic

And I appear to have a hard time, frozen up as I am, to acknowledge I am still here

There is very little activity from around us, which speaks for the late evening it is

For the tardiness of people who´ve been working all day, who want to get home

Who are happy it´s not them. When someone bleeds and it´s not you.

If you liked that, read some more poetry


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