Grief surrounds me like the morning’s mist
Grief at the injustice in the world (brought on by a sad book).
The people I pass seem gloomy too today, heads down.
Outside a café a drying channel of spilt milk, dripping into the gutter.
Far too many spilt lives dripping onto the streets too these days.
More cries of “spare change” spilling from desperate lips and cold hands.
In the alleyways, on steps, on street corners.
It’s closer than we like to think.
Only yards from my office.
Another spilt life sleeping in a split sleeping bag.
Leaving my banana won’t clean up the spill,but I leave it anyway, although my misty sadness remains.