By H.C Lucas

Azaleas pop
under a mauve meander,
where the blackened Mulberries
stain – oil soaked
concrete mass.
And feet stamp:
one after
the other,
as micro beads of
pigment the

No one stops
to see such
a massacre –
now lay
under its shadow.
So low. So low.

Fermented berry
permeates the alley.
The rasp and the souring
acidifies the air,
as encroached noses
turn their heads.

And as guilted feet
step by –
with coffee in one hand
and 9 – 5
in the other –
the Mulberries lay
oblivious - in a bloody pool.
Clotted arteries.
Punctured grapes.


This poem is a public submission created for Red Room Poetry's New Shoots digital poetry anthology