Part 9

An hour gone by.
Here lies number 30,
All bent metal rent open,
The innards spilt out,
Her back, broken.
She had slipped and slid
Down the road,
Like a broken roller skate,
Painting the street red.

The mourners gather at the side of the grave,
Looking on at her belongings
Littered about the pavement.

Here’s a burnt book.
Here’s a toy rocket.
There’s a frozen fob
And there’s a melted locket.
A sandwich box.
A bit of string.
A charred newspaper.
A wedding ring.

The End

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