He leant over his half finished crossword.
Burnt out cigarette in one hand,
Pen, held loosely in the other.
Most mornings he's like this,
Troubling over his ash covered puzzle,
And scratching his greying beard.
What's the point, he snorts,
But it's not the crossword he's talking about.
Why am I here he questions,
I want to die.
But as he leans over his half finished puzzle,
He knows as well as everyone.
He's not scared of dying.
He's scared of dying alone.
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Comments about this poem (Alone by Colette Grosvenor )
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