Poem: Underneath the Bridge – 17/01/20

Underneath a bridge is where we huddle
during fine misted mornings that swell
with particles of fresh oxygen and unlisted chemicals,
the conglomerate joins in a state of irony,
of helpful and harmful.
They are united as one with drawbacks and expulsions,
in and out,
the clouded fog permeates and breathes,
enveloping our heads in a manner so delightful we cannot help but grin.
The scent of grape and a slight hint of cherry 
cheerily singes the nostrils,
the plume of unknown contents really poisons, it does.
But we will be safe from the atrocities,
it is healthier, you see,
as we puff, puff, puff, underneath the bridge 
in our workplace yard.
They may not be able to see us,
but the dragon plumes are enough of a firm indicator.
And then, sudden deaths came,
detailed in the news and in the paper.
The trend to use these devices claimed an epidemic,
all because we wanted a safer and more fashionable 
cloud of flavoured poison.

If only we knew, the damage to many could have been avoided,
mutterings and wailing of "I didn't know", 
as devices are flung aside or onto the pavement. 
Our haze evaporates into the air,
it’s time to get back to work.    
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.

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