Spectator

Spectator

And when the arrows came
for your body as fast hands,
chest, back, face
mutilated by sweat,
when the heels
of your shoes were burnt by tarmac,
never grown wings
when the urine infused railings
held your mind to gutter
more than any man could,
when I watched, when I stopped,
when the world kept turning
and your screams
when I moved off
and your face
upon locked restaurant doors,
and when a safe pull over
took too much time,
by the time I'd called,
looped round,
all was cold.
I felt it all.
There's so much more,
much much more
I could have done,
personally.
I'll likely never know
what happened to you,
and your whip frame,
another human weight to carry,
like the lad on Dartmoor,
like the girl that day in London.