The Tiny Tragedies
All the cars mumbling past
Oblivious, uncaring, unknowing.
Avoiding the small domestic dramas
That unfold behind the white picket fences
The tiny deaths, the vast arguments,
The purple-brown bruises,
And the blooming, screaming births.
All the cars mumbling past
Concentrated, contemplating.
Absorbed in their very own stories
That unfold behind their very own fences.
That smile yesterday, that kiss.
Those six right words,
And the rain slick road, the tyres turning.
She sits and watches
All the cars mumbling past.
He sits in his car as it murmurs down the road.
She calls society unforgiving, calloused,
He calls life full of opportunities.
She folds her hands, bows her head to shed a tear,
He turns up the volume on the radio,
And the cars mumble down the road.