Friend

By PJ Bayliss

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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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(C) 2012 PJ Bayliss