John Doe Smith by Bohdan Yuri

Last night john doe was zipped,
and lifted in his black plastic bag,
the frozen stiff was finally moving
to a new location on the other side.

everyone that passed his tired spot
had recognized his shadowed slot,
reclining, on a cardboard carpet,
adrift in twilight’s senseless ride;

and on those frenzied crowded days
when indifference stepped over his face,
just a slight hitch in a pedestrian parade,
for those born into busy escapades.

the next day’s music strained its play,
a cold-shoulder tune arranged to forsake,
heads turned looking for some traces
that filled some empty ghostly spaces.

their discomfort was a taxing notion,
complete, with an uncaring notation,
explained, as just some torn out pages,
indeed, how easy to fill their ego stages;

a real memory to replay, probably not,
what’s the sense in caring delusions,
besides, what’s his name was finally
gone…, why bother to remember

john doe  — smith was his last name.


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Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

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