the blind man paces
passes the puffs of smokers
whose minutes are linked
only by the next moment
the flame touches the end
of their next cigarette fix
there is no joy here
but a tired tarnish crusting
over time-wearied sidewalks
there’s no peace in this rain
falling on a decaying city
empty storefronts stare
as the blind man passes
perhaps unaware
perhaps for the best

© Sarah Whiteley

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