Passing
(by Una Crowe)
It's not:
The loneliness
Of seeing no one;
The silence rapping
On my front door;
The chance my story
Is tedious, boring,
Irrevelant
In the world's uproar.
Even the fear of
Being discarded,
Written off the mailing board:
But the pain of memory
When we were happy,
If I hadn't known you
Could my loss be more?