when being soft becomes hard
was it too much for you
to even hear the sound of your own echoing footsteps
running down and away
from the empty street at midnight where you live?
or, did your vulnerable listening
not want to take in another single thing
should it have included yet more bad news,
news that would always be repeating
freshly inked on the broadsheets
of communal gossip
refused by you in the same way
kids refuse lifts
from shadowy men in shadowy cars
because the men did not represent themselves as men
because the cars did not represent themselves as cars
but paedophilic traps for the unwary child.
There again, were you representing yourself?
sentimentalist? hyper-sensitive? coward?
or a person defending a heart so pure
that if it had heard the moon crying
it would have broken into pieces of pieces, of pieces.