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Contributor: Paul Tristram

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She screamed “Don’t!”
everyone looked in the direction
of the phone box
she was standing limp in.
Wearing a loose nightie,
open dressing gown
and one furry rabbit slipper.
Ten to midnight
at the busy terminus
at the top end of Town.
She let the telephone
fall from her shaking hand
and slid unladylike
down the glass side
onto the uneven concrete floor.
Where she cried herself silent,
rocking back and fore,
a bubble from her left nostril
augmenting with each shudder.
Some people tutted,
others shook their heads,
a few crossed themselves quickly.
But no one stopped except to gawk,
no one intervened even slightly.
She was left alone to figure it out
by everyone including me.

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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)


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