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Ganjanapoli by D.J Shepherd is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.






Who was she?
Who opened the door for me.
Outside the bank, standing there.
Forlorn, invisible, neglected.
Is she sleeping in the hedge she has been dragged backwards through?

Jeans torn at the knee.

Boots scuffed and worn.
Clutching her empty collecting cup,
in vain hope of a little change.

I know how you feel,
down to that last never again.
No Knight emerging from this storm to save you.

Is this that last shot?
The final act.
The Buskers Last Stand.




I can see her through the window still standing there, beyond the reflection of myself, still searching for which buttons to press to bring this machine to life.

Could I can I come to your rescue?
Maybe I can slip a little something in your cup.
Hot soup.
A warm place to stay,
would that be a priority?

I’ll play it quick in, quick out.

See if I can’t help.
Do you think a coin for the cup might
Send the right message.

Stop she is no lost sheep stop I have been mistaken stop




Something is not right.

Has she seen me emerging from the rain, struggling with this heavy shopping, and only wanted to help? Because, if she is a busker then why is there coffee in her collecting cup where an empty cup should be?

I should have seen, I should have stopped, but I did not.

Jeans ripped in Paris.
Boots scuffed by experts in Milan.
Backwards dragged through hedge by Privet.

All is not lost.

I can save this.
I can still turn it around.
I can explain, it only looks like a limp, the rain has soaked into my sock and made my foot too heavy to lift.

But as the coin disappears below the coffee it is clear. There is no way she
will let me help now.


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  • Author: D J Shepherd
  • Published: 2016-05-23 17:35:26
  • Words: 306
Ganjanapoli Ganjanapoli