There is no-one to call her nameor keep a vigil, she isn’t me or you
not every life is weighed the same
not all deaths are quite equal value
an orphaned, unknown fruit sellera crushed mass as she passes by
on her usual beat among the lonely squalor
of the crowded roads her days occupy
mongrels sniff at what looks like blooda bunch of grapes in the ditch lies squashed
vultures dip out their solemn hoods
couple days and the whole is washed
the city gets back to its usual businessno-one notices one fruit seller less.
Over at dVerse poets are observing a minute of silence to remember and honour the victims of 9/11. This post is very respectfully dedicated to the many thousand nameless victims of terrorism in my own country, as well as those in the wider world.