He died as he must have lived
Curled up on the footpath quietly
While cars and people passed by
Sparing only vague pitying glances
But definitely no small change.
He’s peaceful — you’d think him
Asleep if it weren’t for the blood
On his temples and the two uniforms
Standing guard over him as they
Never would in life.
They don’t look at him really —
She swings her hands back and forth
Or plays with her ponytail while
He monitors each car carefully
As it drives onto the street.
It’s peaceful — no sirens yet
The ambulance too late or absent altogether
The sun shining, the sky blue,
The paperwork and the postmortem
Days away, the ill-attended funeral
Still to come.