The first time I saw death outside of a funeral home was 11:57 on a Tuesday. I was walking down the street near my office building when I spot two officers up ahead. They are standing by a man laying in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s slushy and cold. An ambulance pulls up, no siren. Two paramedics emerge. One talks to the cops while the other pushes the mans face back and forth a few times, examining it. A few feet away, tourists are snapping pictures of the Old State House across the street, as if they can’t see the dead man lying next to him.
But I’ve seen him. Every morning walking to work, and every evening walking back. He huddled by the granite wall of a bank. He had a dirty pom pom hat and layers on layers of grimy gray clothes. I can’t tell what leaves him laid out by his usual spot. As I get closer and closer I become more and more furious at the callous people so determined to get the perfect shot of a building that is photographed a thousand times a day they don’t noticed him. It begins to sink in that I saw him every day, and maybe that was worse.
a white sheet covers
what some refuse to see, or
let their eyes pass over
Another Dverse prompt that let me get out a poem that’s been lurking in my mind for far too long.