Bloodclot

"A stained, patch-work table cloth sits on    
a sad looking park bench, neatly folded,    
waiting for something to be done there." *    
   
It has witnessed many a happy birthday  
with candles being blown out in a gust
of pure excitement. Strange dingy uncles  
spilling various sauces and wiping themselves  
clean with it's once lively colored fabric.And  
of course those foolish teens who just couldn't  
wait on a starry-eyed full moon afternoon. His  
eyes glisten, softly still, as the biting sting of  
the syringe sends wrongful pleasure signals to  
his at one time remarkable mind.The highway  
tread on his heels ache somewhere, he didn't  
care, all he knew was that it was gone. His family  -
safely hidden beneath a bridge, tucked in a    
jagged tear in the concrete, the thought wasn't    
safe to bare so he hid it there with the rest of    
his guardian angels. "They gave up looking.", a    
voice whispered from beneath the dank fog.    
"Why would they care anyways? You're just    
trudging around with dirty sneakers like the next    
bum you'd ignore." Deeper, the hole sits, unignored    
but forgotten. Like his shoes his veins show wear,    
but unlike his shoes, no one can see.Thin, rigid, and    
cold, rather bent and quite sold - his stranger pale    
frame lay uninhibited - the tablecloth saw it all.    
   
*An excerpt from a German play entitled "Unterbrochen" meaning "Interrupted" , the writer and his whereabouts remain a mystery.