A cop's on the corner, traffic's movin' slow,
A man's beating his wife in the flat below.
Junkies in the alleys behind the bars
Finding space for the needle between the scars.

Smog hangs over the city like a blanket of doom,
She's old and alone in one little room.
It's not safe to go out, not safe to stay in,
She sips on her tea and remembers when.

Far away in time and space from the Ghetto
She ran and played in a bright, sunny meadow.
But now; the rat scurries along the wall
Under the door and into the hall.

Oh, he'll be back. She'll feed him and pretend
He loves her. He's her family, her only friend.
She's old, sick and alone, and only he cares.
One day, someone will recall the old woman up stairs.

And someone will say," Oh my, didn't you know?
The poor, old thing died over a year ago."
And a cop's on the corner, a man's beating his wife,
Junkies in the alleys, and someone says; " That's life !"

 

Lora Cox

 

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Do not copy or use poetry without permission
from Lora Cox

 

 

    






 



         

 




 

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