12 noon, down one of many streets.
Strewn to the side with the mud and leaves.
Police lights flash in windows and in eyes,
Mrs Berry desperately acting surprised.
I ask a neighbour “what happened?”
He says the boy was rushing to a lover when his life was ended.
Two doors down, the story is gone.
“His mother was waiting.” “She’s been ill for so long.”
Someone said he was running from school.
He hadn’t been doing well, but he had his family fooled.
And as I walked by the people stood around,
I didn’t hear his name once.
I didn’t hear his name, only empty spaces
filled with lies and stories growing hazy.
They’re trying to not look excited, they’re doing a rubbish job,
now that it’s dripping from their lips. Oh god,
another tabloid teenage death. Another hit and run.
The people are watching, still, even after the body is gone.
A neighbour’s thirst for gossip, its driving them all insane.
And the only thing I can think is, ‘none knew his name.’