Satinder Singh

Curled up on the steps of the old church,
surrounded by boots, blankets, bottles,
middle of the day and still asleep, too deeply asleep.

Your hand was grey, too grey,
and as Mark gently shook you and said,
“Hello, my friend, hello?”
your hand stayed still, too still.

Phone calls, chest compressions, sirens
but late, too late,
for you, Satinder Singh.

Stretched out by the steps of the old church,
surrounded by paramedics, policemen, passers-by,
middle of the day and still asleep, too deeply asleep.

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