I left my self at the door this morning
Slammed the door and walked away
It is just a regular day, working
The walls are cold and people are yelling
Didn’t they eat their breakfast on the tray?
I left my self at the door this morning
Twenty-five men enter, crawling
Twenty-five men are washed away
It is just a regular day, working
Did I hear the child calling
When her mother started to pray?
I left my self at the door this morning
My sister came, dad is moaning
The sky is low, the clouds ash-grey
It is just a regular day, working
My neck itches and my legs are falling
On its surface, the skin betrays
I found no-one at the door this evening
Though it was just a regular day, working
London, October 2020. Marie Beauchamps ©