Nothing Happened

Nothing Happened

Let the crowd thin, then begin
to see why they gathered here.
When clear, on your own path steer.
That was the instruction
he had been given.
Now all he could see was
an empty city square
with pigeons nodding about,
looking for bread crumbs, no doubt,
orange peel and apple cores.
So nothing happened here at all, he thought,
as he walked off in the wind,
passing by the windows of the stores.

The inconvenience of reality,
he had to tackle every day.
He needed money in his wallet,
if he wanted to go away.
And every shuttered face he saw
seemed harassed, guilty of some crime,
and the railway station tower clock
had quite forgotten time.

So he sat in a hotel lobby,
and tried to look involved.
In his mind, a private detective,
his last case almost solved.
A force that splintered light,
and shredded every sound,
drove him to the dock lands,
to see where all the ships were bound.

Maybe he was feeling paranoid,
but the lamp post looked annoyed.
He wondered if he could ask someone
who could tell you who you are,
certain that he had a guide,
but blank clouds hid his star.

And a woman on a balcony
was pointing at the sky,
as if she had never seen before
an aeroplane fly by.
And though nothing had happened,
he felt one day it could,
when all the gates were open,
and he survived the wreckage
of the fire and the flood.

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