A man died outside my window last night,
The bus, it's light still dim, inert,
With a shade of blue slowly revolving,
The police blocked the road.

Like a ghoul, I looked upon the aftermath,
The body lay lonely on the asphalt,
The whole scene hung there, desolate, quiet,
Like a Hopper painting, between my window,

The only thing I could muster from myself,
Was minor, shallow,
I expected fierce sorrow, but felt nothing,
I looked again, nothing,
I looked again-
Silence, no roar of epiphany, empathy,
Which one of us was meant to be dead?

I stopped looking,
It was equally as inhumane,
To search and expect,
As it was to not feel,

In the end I could only decide,
Upon one fact.
That when I look out my window again,
I'll see the body- gone,
The traffic- moving,
And one small bouquet, laid against a sign,
Propped up against the wind.

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