Bent

by Steve Forde, Aries - Not entered

With a nervous nod
(aware of their
hostility) he
edges through the
crowd. Crumpled 
cap is doffed 
meekly: the hated 
half-smile. Soon be
time to clock
in! (behind him
a low murmur)

One such Witness
to his young 
disciple: He’s 
bent. He touched 
Hungarian Joe in
the loading bay. 
They should take 
him away, and 
shoot him.




Reason for writing:

    Another true story. Long holidays and no money.
    

Birth sign: Not entered
Date created: 1997-07-21 15:08:41
Last updated: 2021-03-03 14:39:38
Poem ID: 47635

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