If it's me, I'd like one more round
with the lights turned down,
and not a sound,
escaping our lips while we try to escape,
lying quietly
contemplating eternity
and what it means to be an open sore
weeping on the streets
of concrete jungles with nothing
but a paper cup, or an over-turned hat
collecting pity from the passers by.
They'd ask themselves why
doesn't he just move,
without stopping to ask him
why he's stopped.
If it's me, I'd call it like it is,
just another tragic game of
neighbours and fences.
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