Drift

There is a body lying
on Waterloo Bridge, tucked in tight
to the wall as though blown like the dead

leaves tossed into drifts
by a wind as unfeeling as unfelt,
covered only by a dog-stained sheet.

I would stop if it weren’t too late,
lift the sheet if it weren’t so dark,
touch his cheek if it weren't so cold;

but it’s late, it’s dark, it’s cold,
I pay my taxes,
my conscience should be clear.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet