A cop's on the corner, traffic's movin' slow,
A man's beating his wife in the flat below.
Junkies in the alleys behind the bars
Finding space for the needle between the scars.

Smog hangs over the city like a blanket of doom,
She's old and alone in  one little room.
It's not safe to go out, not safe to stay in,
She  sips on her tea and remembers when,

Far away in time and space from the Ghetto,
She ran and played in a bright, sunny meadow.
But now; the rat scurries along the wall
Under the door and into the hall.

Oh, he'll be back. She'll feed him and pretend
He loves her. He's her family, her only friend.
She's old, sick and alone, and only he cares.
One day, someone will recall the old woman up stairs

And someone will say," Oh my, didn't you know?
The poor, old , thing died; over a year ago."
And a cop's on the corner, a man's beating his wife, 
Junkies in the alleys, and someone says; " That's life !"

©Lora Cox

This poem has been published




Midi is, This Here's My Life

By © John Torp