The Sad Truth Poem by Christopher P. P. White

Those big wheels have fallen off
The train and we lay
Derailed in the mud.

The crows perch on the telephone poles
And heckle us in their deadpan tones;
Louder and more abrasive
With every tear that rolls down
Your weathered cheek.

Amongst the rubble of our accident,
I see tiny bits of something better—
I think people call them regrets.

The ride was a good one baby
But nothing lasts forever,
Not even us.

The sad truth is I can't be bothered
To get on my feet
And dust off all the gravel
And muck.

I'd rather wait for the horror
To blow over—
That's the honest, bitter,
Truth.