Knifed In The Park Poem by C Richard Miles

Knifed in the park; too, too sad – you stood no chance
To have your fifteen minutes of fame.
There you are, smiling out of the ornate, Gothic mount
Of the faded picture frame,
Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth,
Hair neatly brushed, no brutal bloodstain,
Grinning schoolkid, tie askew, cheeky,
No sign of that sudden, final pain
That took its hold on you and put you
In its dripping, gore-red frame last night
When that knowing glance led to that stupid argument,
That to-the-death, fatal fight
And now your proud, but pained parents
Lament that life that would have been
As they make their agonized appeal
Out of the flickering television screen.
Your life-picture flickers no more;
Your telly’s tube is smashed. The power’s cut
Since that rival gangsta-man plunged
The flickering knife-silver into your gut.
And the flickering, flashing blue of the cop car
And ambulance too, too late came.
Knifed in the park; too, too bad – you stood no chance
To have your fifteen minutes of fame.
I’ll give you your chance –
What would you have been? An astronaut perhaps,
Eminent lawyer defending human rights,
With consummate ease, no mishaps,
Eloquently addressing learned judges,
Or a surgeon: skilled fingers working a blade
Saving lives, mending broken bodies,
Perhaps staunching jagged wounds like were made
On you. Teacher? Giving less-well-off kids
Opportunity to escape to a better life.
Preacher-man? – you had the gift of the gab,
Rapping out rhyme, till that cruel knife
Shut you up for good. Banker? Economist?
They always say you did well at school
When you went. You knew better.
You already had knowledge. You were nobody’s fool.
Your education was the lore of the street.
You knew the score and where to score
That crystal, that crack, that snow, that blow.
Council-house kid, but not so poor
Your wealth was in your head:
Savvy, Streetwise, Drugwise, too, too wise: But to what end?
Would you end up in Tesco’s or Somerfield’s
Thoughtlessly stacking shelves, my friend
Or grease-monkey in the garage under the bridge,
Doing up dodgy motors for dodgy blokes
Or pizza-delivery boy, waiting hours for an order,
Laughing with the lads, cracking jokes.
They said you had something about you:
You made a good tree in the primary-school play.
Did stardom beckon? Music promoters should have heard you:
You had the X-factor, okay?
But the only X-factor you have now
Is that you’re ex, finished, over; too, too young.
You could have been a poet:
You had the rhythm and the rhyme, but you’ve no tongue
That can sell your story, lisp your lyrics.
But I can: I can tell your tale. I don’t know your name.
Knifed in the park; too, too dead – you stood no chance
To have your fifteen minutes of fame
But here they are, more than fifteen minutes
Since these words will stand on the page
And stare out of the ornate, Gothic mount
Of the poetry book that sits on the shelf. Age
Will not weary the words. You’re immortalised.
You made it. You’re in history’s book
But was it history or just his story
That your assassin was thinking of when your life he took?