Shabby pile of bones
under a black bridge.
You were found out;
talked to the hawk,
or a murder of crows.

Maybe your first love,
who found you
in flagrante
set you up,
or the second, the witness,
incredulous,
who did not wish
to believe.

Selfish, faithless,
you will be alone.
The black bridge won’t help,
it mocks,
celebrates bones,
droll bones,
beneath the bridge.

Polly Stretton © 2020

napowrimo #17