Thursday, April 29, 2010

Moorgate, February 28, 1975

Stomach knotted in
Pride and disbelief
I labored painstakingly
Through two full pages
Of dense black prose
Mourning the loss of
Forty-three people
Just like me

The driver never
Touched the brakes
Never raised his hands
As the train accelerated
Into a brick wall
Yet in his pocket were
Three hundred pounds
To buy his daughter a car
When his shift was done

Was this stupidity or suicide?
Distraction or despair?
At age seven
I learned
We never really know
The contents of
Another person’s mind.

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