by Paul Tristram
They’d jammed a chair against the kitchen door handle.
I kicked it open and the skinny, junkie guy ran out
carrying with him his little bag of tricks and misery.
I saw her first track mark on the back of her left hand
I shook my head disappointedly and asked why?
“This is Oblivionville, the next phase and you’re either
coming along for the ride with me or you’re not?”
I grabbed my cider flagon and denim jacket and left.
20 years later, I heard she threw herself under a train,
she didn’t die, one of her legs was hit the wrong way
around and one of her arse cheeks needed to be removed.
We used to be schoolyard sweethearts, once upon a time.
I remember her bringing me bread & butter in the shed
at the bottom of her grandmothers garden where I was
hungry and hiding, she also brought a potted flower
and put it on a shelf by the window to make it look nice.
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