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