A woman, one evening, was pulled
from the street
near a village green
and raped, the rapist,
who’d offered to bring
her home, stabbing her
several times in the chest
and the back, a voice,
in pity, screaming
and crying for help,
most villagers totally deaf
and busy watching
a soap on TV 6 or TV 10.
The next day, the news
that a nursing student
had been killed took
everyone by surprise.
A driver was shot
dead inside his taxi,
his wife, at home,
looking lovingly
at their sleeping child.
His wallet was gone.
It was a shock
to see him looking
like so alive,
he was bleeding heavily.
Smaller local money
lenders were chasing
after men who had snatched
their bags.
A policeman
was found slain,
his soul must have
been nervous
around multiple
stab wounds
to the neck and
upper body.
A passenger lost
her underwear
and her virginal
innocence
at the rubbish dump, pinning
the blame on her saviour,
a maniacal taxi driver who
brought her, after, to her
destination—
and who is at large following an escape.
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