By PJ Bayliss


The sweeper was there in the club that day,
He donated his time and gave us a smile,
But I was busy and could not afford to stay,
The next day he dropped after running a mile.
The red-nosed gentleman always said hi,
Regardless of what went on in his life,
Eager to hear how my day had gone by,
I heard of his death by his gracious wife.
We drove down the road, cursed at the car,
Casually labelling the stranger a jerk,
Even with doctors attending right there,
The stranger remained, never made it to work.
My Grandfather always seemed grumpy & mean,
But strong willed and always merry with beer,
Until one afternoon he coughed up his spleen,
My last words had made my feelings quite clear.
The dust barely settles as he falls on foreign soil,
The uniformed child with his kids at home,
A journalist captures the moment blood spoils,
His kids learn when online they roam.
I sit in my bunker and peer through my eyes,
Calmly putting everything to the test,
Hiding from this world and my untimely demise,
 Running from the night when I don’t rest.
My existence lives in a corridor of time,
Rolling messages and pages of words,
Caring for lives who are not mine,
Content with an ending if I am heard.

(C) 2012 PJ Bayliss


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