Closing

 

The helpline has closed.

The blackberry bush has been cut down,

From which we used to gather

Sweet berries every year.

Is this leafy grove

Sufficient distance from the road

To loiter and pretend my town

Just does not exist?

I lie back and close my eyes.

The berries here are poisonous:

Bloody red like little bullets

Growing in this grove.

There’s no phone signal;

You cannot phone for help from here.

I’m dozing here, escapist,

My head upon the leaves.

 

 

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