To what do I owe
Such a formal bow?
From a stranger even
On this dark wet lonely street
Or have we met in times passed?
If we were friends or comrades
I should likely recall
Such pale beauty
So perhaps not this
And you prepared with clenched fist
Belies this thought
Such a formal bow
Impeccable in form
Without introduction
You arrive glistening in moonlit rain
To honour your fallen?
To avenge a loved one?
To earn a payday?
Surely then such a bow would be then considered
Undeserved
Impeccable as it is
Speak up my dear
Why so silent fist all clenched
What is in your pocket then
A pistol?
Or a rose?
By Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2024, all rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment