dusting

The man had been hit by the handicap van, that was the backdrop of my day.
A bloody pair of pants alone on the street behind the barricades,
one black shoe neatly placed next another.

The man at the pharmacist told the story of the accident while I waited.

I walked past those pants three times today,
Blood tests and conversations with doctors,
in  room where I felt my own words vanish.
But they have no words for me,

I’m just a middle age woman coming in with a complaint
I was home before I though of all the questions I had.

Anyway they have my blood to talk to them.

too dark to tell

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